Yesterday marked World Refugee Day, a United Nations designation meant to emphasize why refugees seek protection, to celebrate their contributions to communities and to instill empathy and understanding for their plight. At Stranger’s Guide, we prioritize and amplify refugee voices; many of our guides offer first-hand accounts of their displacement and resettlement in a new country. This week’s Field Guide we recognize the experiences of refugees around the world and highlight stories from Colombia, Syria, Ukraine, Vietnam and more.
The Refugees of Zaatari
By Zarlasht Halaimzai
Walking in the labyrinth of tents, I wonder if there is a map for Zaatari. It does have a main street. It is known to the aid workers as the Champs-Élysées and, to the Syrians, Shar-e-al souk—“Market Street” in Arabic. It’s a long strip on the western side of the camp, and you can buy just about anything there. I browse stalls of mobile phones, falafel and china dishes. The shoe stalls are popular. When Zaatari was built, it seemed a good idea to pour tons of gravel on top of the desert sand to protect the refugees from the weather. An unfortunate side effect of this is the demand for shoes. You wear them out quickly if you walk on gravel all day long.
I notice the clothing lines that float from one tent to another. I spot a Manchester United shirt drying in the sun. Strangely, it seems perfectly at home here. Someone took their favorite shirt with them.
Most refugees arrive at Zaatari with household items and groceries. They carry blankets, pots, bags of rice and oil. Few take their most precious things. After all, the safest place, psychologically, is still home. Their photos will be safe there.
My mother left all her most precious things in Kabul: her collection of postcards, a leather satchel that her father had made for her, her diaries. She took a handful of photos. She worried that we might lose them on the way; better to keep them at home, she thought. On the morning of our departure, she turned to my aunt and grandmother, who were staying behind, and pleaded with them to keep everything safe. She sobbed and held her mother. We couldn’t take her mother with us. Years later, we found out that my grandmother threw the photo albums down the well when the Taliban overran our house. Something more than our things was lost in our experience of war. We lost our bearings for a long time.
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