What is it Like to be a Refugee?
When I first left my country I did not think about the fact that I will be called a “refugee.” I was too worried about our safety as my mind played out all of the scenarios of things that could go wrong. We may get caught and deported, or worse, end up in jail. With my two younger siblings and mother, none of whom speak any language other than our own, I could feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. If you ask me how I felt about Jakarta when we first arrived I wouldn’t know what to say. Back then my mind was filled with nothing but anxiety and uncertainty.
“I felt my heart sinking, thinking that this is our fate now: waiting. ”
A few days after our arrival we went to the UNHCR office to register as asylum seekers. Maybe it was the heat, maybe the anxious faces around me, but for days after I was left feeling weak and helpless. In the waiting area I saw people whose demeanor suggested nothing but the misery of a long-lasting wait. I had seen refugees before, but none with a look as joyless and tired as the ones I saw in that waiting room of UNHCR. Soon we found out that many of them had been in Indonesia for five, or even up to nine years. I felt my heart sinking, thinking that this is our fate now: waiting.
Later, outside the UNHCR office and away from the refugee community, I met and talked to local Indonesians, tourists, and visitors, and I first realized the difference. You see, we understand certain things about ourselves through interacting with other people and through their reactions towards ourselves. The reactions I got every time I said, “I’m a refugee,” were many, and not all of them pleasant. Some people felt sorry for me and started thinking of ways to help. Others had no idea what to say and ended up saying nothing, leaving us to the mercy of our imagination and judgment. Some said they were grateful for not being anything like us, for being free and not a refugee. A few said we looked “too normal” to be refugees.
As much as I want to be normal and live like a normal person it seems impossible. Being a refugee and living with what others think about us, watching them practice their basic rights and taking them for granted as we once did, meeting the stereotypes of being a refugee, and even disappointing people by not meeting their expectations of what a refugee is, shape us in ways we can’t change.
Currently we live in a safe country where people go to work, university, school, or a friend’s house without being in constant fear of being shot or having a bomb go off near their children’s school. We live in this country without fear of bombs or shooters, which is more than many of us could ask for, but we also live without the chance of going to university or school or to send our children to school. As refugees we can’t study or have a job. We can’t drive a car or own a house or a business. Many refugees don’t have access to health services.
“I have come to think that being a refugee means leaving one’s home in search of another and ending up with no home at all.”
I have lived this life for over three years now. I have come to think that being a refugee means leaving one’s home in search of another and ending up with no home at all. It means feeling powerless and lost because our fates were decided by the fact that we were born in one part of the world instead of another, and that determines everything about who we become. Being a refugee means being stateless and therefore disposable. It means not being human enough to deserve human rights. It means living under the shadow of uncertainty.
We will always be attached to the place where we spent most of our lives and grew roots. There are many things I miss about the city I grew up in. I miss being in Kabul instead of thinking about Kabul. I miss the touch of snow and the smell of spring. I miss my friends and the dusty streets we walked on. I think about the arrival of each of the four seasons which were more punctual than most Afghans you will meet. Most of all, I miss having hope. I miss having that endless faith in the possibilities that the future could bring.
I spend a lot of time thinking about the numbers. Thinking about the 1% of refugees that are resettled each year. Thinking about the years and days we will have to wait until we make that 1%. Thinking about the thousands of refugee children without parents, and the ones with helpless parents. Thinking about my two younger siblings and about how unfair it is to spend your childhood in waiting.
Despite everything, my family and I are some of the lucky ones. We were able to come here together and found an easier passage than many. We found a community of other refugees. If there is anything that helps, if there is anything that makes the waiting easier, it is helping each other. It is finding friends and being part of a community that understands what we are going through. I am one of the lucky ones who has found a community like that. We help each other and stay strong for each other. I have found a place where I can meet people that I can relate to, a place where I can teach and find joy with my students.
Maybe the day will come when there is no war. A day when no country stands as the global power while the rest are simply a chessboard to their games. Maybe a day will come when men, women, and children no longer have to leave their homes and risk their lives to cross oceans for a chance to find peace and safety; a day when the world is at peace and children can go to school and families meet during the holidays instead of waiting till fate brings them together. Perhaps I will be there to see it. Perhaps I will find a home in a small corner of this vast world with a pile of books to read and a group of cheerful students to teach and guide. Until then I will hold on to the little faith I have in humanity and the community that now surrounds me.
About the Writer: Nafisa was born and raised in Afghanistan. She has been living in Indonesia for three years. Currently, she volunteers as an English teacher at Roshan and has just finished her GED. Her favorite activities are reading and running. She has been a part of the Roshan community for more than two years and finds it warm and welcoming.