Freedom

I was reading an article online about refugees most prized possessions.  It ranges from a headscarf which was a gift, a horse, an old tea set symbolising the social interaction and culture that comes with this tradition and books.

I’ve never had this decision. 

I guess most people haven’t.  I looked around my house that evening: my graduation pictures with my parents, the computer I saved up for; for over two years, the cool cushions that was a Christmas gift from my sister and I couldn’t decide on one thing to take.  I decided that I would take my stuffed dog, not very practical but great emotional importance.

I live in peace.

I don’t need to worry about safety.

About my next meal.  

About clothes.

I’m fortunate.  Very fortunate.  I can pray to whoever I want and not be prosecuted for my faith.  I can surround myself with human beings, whether they are pink or green and not be told otherwise.  I get to go to work every day. 

Being a refugee means giving up all of the physical representations of your life and fleeing. To be safe, to live.  Living in a tent, relying on aid organisation to provide you with basic items: maize meal, clothes, blankets, soap.  All things we take for granted.  That is, if you’re lucky enough to make it into a refugee camp.  You surrender yourself as a non-person, as the article called it.  No home, no place to go and a very bleak future.

My home is the place I feel safe and comfortable and after a rough day – the only place I want to be.  It’s filled with things I love and appreciate.  I have enough food in my fridge.

I guess I’m free.