They often ask how I fled and why did I flee.
For some of them, it’s a normal question, but for me it’s not less than going to a hell and then return with my whole body burnt and blood dropping from across my fingertips.
Sometimes, their questions are really tough – especially when their questions concern about my family and my life. It’s not that I don’t have any answer, but the truth is: I won’t be able to even sleep or eat properly afterwards. For each answer takes me back to a period that I don’t even wish to remember. For all I remember are: miseries, losses of lives, troubles, and bloodshed. I have nothing good to tell to make them laugh – perhaps I even haven’t experienced a normal life like them to tell how the rainbow colors subscribe my hopes to a new and colorful tomorrow. From within, I’m only a war-torn and stateless refugee without a homeland, as they gently recite with their friends.

Their questions are tougher than I can really swallow.
Every time they as a question, my heart from within starts beating faster…faster with fear and so many traumatic thoughts. Often I remain silent or smile back to hide my unseen tears from within when they ask, “Do you miss your family? How often do you visit them? How do you manage to live here?” I don’t know, how to make them understand of my feeling? I don’t know, how to make them understand that like them, I’m also a human with a feeling and sense.
Instead, I chose to remain silent for a while and put my head down to be able to hold my tears. I feel deprived, hurt and even humiliated sometimes. For what else do I have to tell them, except ‘how I buried my friends, relatives, and dearest ones.’ How should I make them understand that they stole my emotions, murdered my childhood dreams and left me abandoned with deep desolate sighs and lonely cries. How should I understand them of a wandering lifeless stranger who is often hated for his status. This is who I am, if I speak about myself. What else do you except from a silenced and caged man who is learnt to live in absolute obliviousness.

About samad1986

Abdul Samad Haidari is a poet, writer, teacher and a former freelance journalist, currently residing in Indonesia as a stateless refugee. He is the author of The Red Ribbon He fled his home country at the age of seven and grew up wandering in Pakistan and Iran as a child refugee, and was separated from his family for the majority of his childhood. For two years, at the age of eight and nine, he was forced into child labour in the construction industry in Iran. In contrast, Pakistan offered refugees like him the opportunity to study and work. This education and work experience culminated in Abdul teaching computer studies and English language courses at the Intel Computer Center and Pak Oxford Professionals. After the collapse of the Taliban government, Abdul returned to Afghanistan thinking that the security situation had improved, and that he could take part in the reconstruction of his war-torn country. With this in mind, Abdul served as a freelance journalist and humanitarian aid-worker in areas of the country that remained dangerous to civilians because of the influence of terrorist groups. Abdul served with the Norwegian refugee council (NRC), ActionAid Afghanistan, Daily Outlook Afghanistan group of newspapers, and The Daily Afghanistan Express. As a freelance journalist, Abdul wrote articles and editorials about on-the-ground realities, which were then circulated widely. These had a particular focus on women and children’s rights, corruption, transparency and accountability in government, warlords and terrorist groups’ actions and the systematic persecution of minority groups in both Afghanistan and Pakistan.
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