inexplicable

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that these people were kicked out of their countries. I can’t believe how messed up all their governments are. I can’t believe all the lies the news media feeds us from what is really going on in their homelands. I can’t believe that many of them can NEVER return to their homes, to the places they grew up and became who they are. I can’t believe that most people in the West don’t know and don’t really ever think about them.

I can’t believe how blessed I am to have grown up in America. I can’t believe that if I had grown up in many other countries I would not have the freedoms I have today as a woman in society. I can’t believe it.

To try to help my brain figure it all out, I have to talk it out. Alice and I will talk and talk as we walk out the faded pale blue metal doors with the UNCHR insignia stamped on them.

We walk down the small soi while few kids from the refugee center kick a homemade ball around us. We talk about how astonished we are at the stories we just heard.

We get in the hot-pink taxi and go to the subway pondering what we can do, wondering how they can live like that.

We hop on the subway and zip below the city feeling remorse for them, and guilt sometimes at how much we take for granted.

We climb the steps to the skytrain and slowly we realize that we can’t mull on it forever and now we need to go to a café and maybe type some emails and prep some of our lessons for the week ahead.

Many times I just have all these feelings and wonder what actions I can do to accompany them and solve all the problems of the world that I am hit in the face with every Tuesday afternoon.

Waiting. Waiting for the U.N to make its decision. Waiting for the war to end. Waiting for my husband to get a passport. Waiting for immigration to remember us. Waiting for the police to discover us or to flee before they can. Waiting.

Many people throw this word in the air to describe how they waited 20 minutes in gnawing hunger for their meal until the incompetent waitress brought it. Or they waited at the bus stop in the blustering cold before it finally skidded to a stop before them. Or they waited for the guy or girl they liked to call for hours until he or she remembered their existence.

“Waiting” is an occurrence that comes and goes and soon becomes something someone whines about to her friends over lunch. Yet, for a refugee, this word is used to describe their entire existence. They have entered a waiting room and have been there so long they have just become a part of the decor.

The refugee waiting room that I peek through the window of every week takes place as the Bangkok Refugee Center. Since October, on most Tuesdays, Alice and I spend an hour and a half playing games, pronouncing words in American English, smiling and trying to love kids from Nepal, Sri Lanka, Laos, Cambodia, Congo, and any other conflict torn country.

Alice and I never feel like we do much. We always feel totally unprepared every week and wonder if we really are doing anything to help these kids learn how to pronounce English properly. Are we just wasting their time by being there?

But then I was reminded, how can you waste a refugees time? That is the one thing they have to spare.

When I ask the refugees I meet if they miss their home country, everyone has said yes. A place where their lives were at stake, where the government destroyed their homes, where they lost their family and friends everyday, they miss that place. They want to return home.

When I ask if they like Thailand, the most common reply is no. They don’t like the food, the weather, how expensive everything is. But this is a place where they are free from persecution, from death, from tyranny. But they don’t like it. They want to return home.

When I ask where they are going next their eyes get a little brighter. Maybe Norway, I have a sister who lives there now. Or maybe Canada because Cantonese is the third most common spoken language. Or California. I have an uncle who works at McDonald’s, and he really enjoys it.

But if you had the chance would you rather go home? Yes.

A man from the Congo told me how at home they have perfect weather, not too hot or cold, which is ideal for exploring the huge forests and open areas he misses. Everyone has free electricity and water. I still don’t understand how that works but it is something to do with the government giving electricity and water away to other countries. There are diamonds everywhere. One morning you could find one, take it to someone and get $10,000. He had so many opportunities. He kept repeating, so many opportunities. He misses his family and friends who are still there. Will you ever go back? I hope so, but I don’t know. Where will you go next? I don’t know. I don’t know. I miss home.

To never be able to go home again to your favorite places. To see your favorite people. I don’t really miss America most of the time. But to envision never ever returning again. To never see anyone from my past life. I can’t imagine it.

I’m sure if the refugees came here on their own they would love this place. It is not the place that they don’t like, but it is their situation. Forced to flee a place they never wanted to leave to go somewhere they care nothing about. What a different perspective from people who travel here from all over the world just to see Bangkok. The refugees could care less about the Grand Palace, about having their first taste of real pad thai, about riding an elephant. They want to be home eating their food around their families table even while war rages outside their window. It is amazing how being forced to be somewhere and being there out of your own volition changes your perspective on the place. Wow.

This week after teaching we had lunch with a man from Iran. He told us how he became a Christian in Thailand, but when he was in Iran he hated Islam. He hated how it enforced so many rules on society. You can’t sit in that chair because a woman sat there, you cant wear white socks because that is Westernized fashion, you cant roll up your sleeve and show your skin. You can’t…He was sick of it and of this God that forced people to follow so many rules.

He said many people are like him in Iran, many people dislike the government and the religion, but they can’t do anything about it because if they do they get killed. He said people in Iran love Americans. If I went there they would treat me better than most Iranians get treated. He said when 9/11 happened many people held candlelight vigils and then the army came in and arrested them. He said he news media from Iran tries to show how all Iranians hate Americans but it is all propaganda. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it.

I have been going to the refugee center for the past months and always want to write something about it, but my words never seem to be enough and I can never get out my ideas of what I really feel and what I really want to say. So I have decided to just write and say something, which is better than saying nothing at all.

So I hope this helps someone understand a little more of what I will never understand.