“As nightfall does not come all once, neither does oppression. In both instances there is a twilight when everything remains seemingly unchanged. And it is in such twilight that we all must be most aware of change in the air, however slight, lest we become unwitting victims of darkness."
U.S. Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas to a group of young lawyers
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
No refugee stories
Far from home, I have sort of come to like my little refugee town.
While I languish, waiting to go home, I continue to write about my friends, strangers, and refugees who are getting used to the landscape still just like me and my frustrations and my hopes.
In my my two years in Utica, I have met many refugees, all very unique people who all have a story to tell. Often, I have sat with them for hours while they talked about their hopes of returning to their countries.
Assimilation takes time and often doesn't happen. Sometimes the refugees want to hold on to the past, at times, the host community is not willing to acccomodate them and their past. There are too many hurdles on the way to integration.
A Burmese refugee told me when I was at her house how her brother was kicked in his stomach when he was returning home. Most of the refugees walk to the English as a Second Language classes at the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees. This incident, quite shocking to me, is not an uncommon occurrence.
Seems like within the schools, many refugee children are subject to violence. A girl, who is from Myanmar, recounted to me how she was kicked once. When you can't talk back because you can't speak their language, you are an easy target, she said.
For years, she would try not to walk home alone or not walk within the campus without friends. It had been difficult making friends in the begining because mostly everyone made fun of you, she said.
So you just had to stick with other refugee children in the schools because like you, they too were going through the same experiences.
To me, it is such a task to live in a strange country, a place you were just assigned to and make fresh beginings. Refugees are citizens of nowhere. Having fled their countries, a new life with all its challenges is thrust one them.
And they can't return like I can. Imagine having to deal with that.
Race is a reality in our world and those who deny it are probably too blind to see how color is such a determinant in so many things.
With refugees, it is the same.
We have heard enough about how welcoming Utica community is and how it loves its refugees. Far from it.
When Bosnians came in, they came in large numbers. They were Europeans and white and wore western clothes. But when Somali Bantus started coming in or even Burmese refugees, it was different.
I hardly ever see a Somali Bantu hanging out with an American friend. These are tightly-knit communities and stick together.
But such is the way society here is and they would all perhaps deny it. Because they want to bask in the glory of being the liberated, caring and democratic Americans who welcome these starving, oppressed and hopeless people.
Who cares if they have problems? Isn't it great enough they are here?
But to me, their stories have so much potential. Because those are the stories of human struggle, the resilience of the spirit and the challenges it faces at every step. I just find it fascinating.
And to me, they are inspirational. Every time I am on the verge of giving it all up, I think of them. Against all odds, they are continuing to wage their battles, trying to integrate, but culture is hard to give up.
While I languish, waiting to go home, I continue to write about my friends, strangers, and refugees who are getting used to the landscape still just like me and my frustrations and my hopes.
In my my two years in Utica, I have met many refugees, all very unique people who all have a story to tell. Often, I have sat with them for hours while they talked about their hopes of returning to their countries.
Assimilation takes time and often doesn't happen. Sometimes the refugees want to hold on to the past, at times, the host community is not willing to acccomodate them and their past. There are too many hurdles on the way to integration.
A Burmese refugee told me when I was at her house how her brother was kicked in his stomach when he was returning home. Most of the refugees walk to the English as a Second Language classes at the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees. This incident, quite shocking to me, is not an uncommon occurrence.
Seems like within the schools, many refugee children are subject to violence. A girl, who is from Myanmar, recounted to me how she was kicked once. When you can't talk back because you can't speak their language, you are an easy target, she said.
For years, she would try not to walk home alone or not walk within the campus without friends. It had been difficult making friends in the begining because mostly everyone made fun of you, she said.
So you just had to stick with other refugee children in the schools because like you, they too were going through the same experiences.
To me, it is such a task to live in a strange country, a place you were just assigned to and make fresh beginings. Refugees are citizens of nowhere. Having fled their countries, a new life with all its challenges is thrust one them.
And they can't return like I can. Imagine having to deal with that.
Race is a reality in our world and those who deny it are probably too blind to see how color is such a determinant in so many things.
With refugees, it is the same.
We have heard enough about how welcoming Utica community is and how it loves its refugees. Far from it.
When Bosnians came in, they came in large numbers. They were Europeans and white and wore western clothes. But when Somali Bantus started coming in or even Burmese refugees, it was different.
I hardly ever see a Somali Bantu hanging out with an American friend. These are tightly-knit communities and stick together.
But such is the way society here is and they would all perhaps deny it. Because they want to bask in the glory of being the liberated, caring and democratic Americans who welcome these starving, oppressed and hopeless people.
Who cares if they have problems? Isn't it great enough they are here?
But to me, their stories have so much potential. Because those are the stories of human struggle, the resilience of the spirit and the challenges it faces at every step. I just find it fascinating.
And to me, they are inspirational. Every time I am on the verge of giving it all up, I think of them. Against all odds, they are continuing to wage their battles, trying to integrate, but culture is hard to give up.
Monday, February 4, 2008
notes to my mother ... I understand now, finally
I guess in being here, in living on my own, simple truths of life have started to make sense to me. Why people live their lives in a small town, in their ancestral homes, without caring for the bustling big cities, without ever wanting a life with so many things ...
Unclutterd life is the best.
In my lonely hours here, I feel time slipping away. I feel I am losing time with you. There's a bond that these few years away from you have stregthened. There's so much to talk about, so much to share. And I want to be in the same house again with all of you.
Often I wake up wondering why I am here. What brought me here and I don't know. Perhaps I wanted to make you proud, to make you feel I was worth all that trouble and that I was strong to venture out and make it.
But I am not so strong, I guess.
Ever so often, confined in my little apartment, I feel the futility of it all.
Why did I want all this? Maybe I wanted to buy you things that we always talked about, or desired.
But now I want nothing more than to be back home.
In my years here, life has changed so much. I seldom get the time to read books. I am alwyas trying to be organized, take charge but I feel so lost in this wonderland.
I don't want to drive fancy cars, nor do I want to be carrying a Gucci bag ...
Now I understand why papa could spend all his life in one house and never want it otherwise ... I could do the same.
So, my mother ... take care and save yourselves for I will be back. And soon too.
Unclutterd life is the best.
In my lonely hours here, I feel time slipping away. I feel I am losing time with you. There's a bond that these few years away from you have stregthened. There's so much to talk about, so much to share. And I want to be in the same house again with all of you.
Often I wake up wondering why I am here. What brought me here and I don't know. Perhaps I wanted to make you proud, to make you feel I was worth all that trouble and that I was strong to venture out and make it.
But I am not so strong, I guess.
Ever so often, confined in my little apartment, I feel the futility of it all.
Why did I want all this? Maybe I wanted to buy you things that we always talked about, or desired.
But now I want nothing more than to be back home.
In my years here, life has changed so much. I seldom get the time to read books. I am alwyas trying to be organized, take charge but I feel so lost in this wonderland.
I don't want to drive fancy cars, nor do I want to be carrying a Gucci bag ...
Now I understand why papa could spend all his life in one house and never want it otherwise ... I could do the same.
So, my mother ... take care and save yourselves for I will be back. And soon too.
notes to my mother
As a child, I always dreamt of getting away to some wild place, where I would live free, unsupervised, unfettered.
Years later, in a faraway town, away from you, I long for the familiar touch, the conversations, the chidings and everything else that I resisted.
When I wake up, it is not because I want to. It is because the sun is up in the sky, it is almost noon, and I have to be at work. As I drag my weary feet to the little kitchenette to prepare tea, I miss you and all that was home so many years ago. I remember how you gave me tea in the morning, how we woke up my brother, and how we sat under the quilt, sipping tea, chatting away.
Those were priceless moments.
It is indeed difficult living here. On my own, I sometimes pass the hours on the couch waiting for nothing, looking forward to nothing.
And it is in these moments, I realize what's home.
And I want to go back forever to an idyllic life. Whether it is possible, I don't know. But the hours don't pass here.
I want to live my life again in the same way by your side, doing nothing, aspiring for no greatness, no love of money, no seeking independence.
In my lonely hours here, I miss the simplicity of life that was. Little joys as a favorite movie at 9 p.m. or you cooking my favorite egg curry seem so precious in this exile.
I crave no more an adventurous life. I want to come back.
Years later, in a faraway town, away from you, I long for the familiar touch, the conversations, the chidings and everything else that I resisted.
When I wake up, it is not because I want to. It is because the sun is up in the sky, it is almost noon, and I have to be at work. As I drag my weary feet to the little kitchenette to prepare tea, I miss you and all that was home so many years ago. I remember how you gave me tea in the morning, how we woke up my brother, and how we sat under the quilt, sipping tea, chatting away.
Those were priceless moments.
It is indeed difficult living here. On my own, I sometimes pass the hours on the couch waiting for nothing, looking forward to nothing.
And it is in these moments, I realize what's home.
And I want to go back forever to an idyllic life. Whether it is possible, I don't know. But the hours don't pass here.
I want to live my life again in the same way by your side, doing nothing, aspiring for no greatness, no love of money, no seeking independence.
In my lonely hours here, I miss the simplicity of life that was. Little joys as a favorite movie at 9 p.m. or you cooking my favorite egg curry seem so precious in this exile.
I crave no more an adventurous life. I want to come back.
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