My Big Day

Last May, a professor of mine told me about an upcoming project, a book on refugees in Cairo. I was an undergraduate student and May is the worst month of the year for me. I didn’t ask a lot of information about the book, my mind was bogged down with deadlines, endless papers and 2 books I have to read in about 5 days. I have to admit, I was certain that I wanted to be part of this project. I’ve worked with refugees in Cairo since my freshman year and it was one of my main areas of interest. The deadline was June 20th, I finished my exams on May 24th. I had plenty of time ( or so I thought) to choose a refugee to interview and conduct a number of long interviews.

When I finished my exams , I slept for about two weeks. When I finally woke up, I called a guy called Lucky, I met him in front of a refugee church in Zamalek. His friend somehow started talking to my friend, then he started talking to me. I wasn’t interested, but for some odd reason, I gave him my number.

He was an aspiring hip-hop artist and he wanted me to come to his concerts.

I called him up one afternoon in the beginning of June and we decided to meet up at the church. We met in the afternoon, it was the hottest afternoon in June. I had to force myself to sit there ,ask questions and focus long enough to write down some notes. When I came home, after a quick stop for a Frappucino in Zamalek, I could barely read my notes.

I learned my lesson, our next meetings were at night. I asked questions, he talked and I let him digress for hours. His memories of Sudan took 10 pages of notes, Kenya took at least 20, Cairo took 25.

Armed with a notebook full of scribbles, abbreviated words and some notes about the need for spell-check (who knew there is a town called Yirol in Sudan?) , I started writing. I wrote a few pages and emailed it to my professor, Brooke Comers, who is also one of the editors of this book. She emailed me back with questions like (what does he see from his window? how did he feel when this happened? can he remember the names of some of his favorite school teachers?)

At this point, I came to contest my so-called “expert” understanding of Sudan. I couldn’t imagine a town being attacked, because I’ve never experienced the horrors of war. So, how is it possible for me to get him to talk in details and communicate his feelings with me if I don’t understand what he has been through.

I hesitated for a while, I felt like I lack the drive to complete this project. I was held-back by my one-sided perspective.

I called Lucky and scheduled yet another long meeting. We met for coffee, he had a sunshine cocktail , which he didn’t even get to drink until we were finished because he couldn’t stop talking. I liked his enthusiasm, we all have a story and a voice and trust me, we want to voice out how we feel about everything. We want to be heard. He saw this as his chance to be heard. It’s not going to change his life 100% , he knew that, but the fact that we know so little about refugees is going to change. Why are they here? What are they doing? What is their story?

Book cover, In Refuge

Listening to him talk about his strict father who told him to stay away from girls because they are the biggest distractions , I couldn’t help but giggle. That was it, common grounds, we all have things in common with refugees. Parents scolding us for drawing little hearts and writing so-called poetry dedicated to our loved ones in our notebooks.

A small sip from the sunshine cocktail and the conversation turned bleak. I stopped thinking about little cute red hearts and started imagining blood, dark red blood, gushing out after he was stabbed in his leg. He said he was walking in Cairo, minding his own business, when a group of young Egyptian men started making jokes and laughing at him. They were trying to provoke any action from him. Being the calm person he is, he ignored them , then he told them to leave him alone . Ten men attacked him, knives entered his body, knives were drawn across his body. He said he was hurt, not by the stitches, but by the feeling of loneliness. He was alone when he was attacked, he was alone when he was rushed to the hospital. All of a sudden, I imagined him , standing at 6′5, people looking at him, with fear in their eyes, an alarmingly tall black man. I looked at him and I couldn’t help but see his powerlessness. Attacked by ten men, he didn’t budge, he left the knives enter his body and dig deep hole, he accepted it, being degraded comes hand in hand with your refugee status. He told me very matter- of -factly, refugees have no rights. I didn’t argue much…..I believe you, I told him.

This book educated me, writing my humble chapter was a liberating experience. It made me encouraged to try new things. I did mention that I’ve worked with refugees since my freshman year , but I didn’t mention that it was all on campus, in my comfort zone. I didn’t go to where they live and experience their living-conditions until that summer. I didn’t know that one day, 15 years ago, I was a refugee myself.

For now, I will leave you with a touching quote.

“We are all refugees of a future that never happened.”

– Lee Weiner

The book is out, all proceeds go to refugees. You may buy it here.

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