Giving Up- A Refugee Story

Giving Up: A Refugee Story

Today I saw a young cat lying in the shade with its eyes lazily opened, staring off into space. Most cats here are so shy that they run away as soon as they hear my steps, but this cat did not move or blink. I squat down, calling gently with no response, and then I realized that it was dead. I grieve for this no-name kitten.

Last week two refugees died in the city- one of medical complications and the other committed suicide. This kitten that quietly lay down in the shade and gave up its spirit, is for me an image of the hopeless situation of marginalized people. They literally have no means. No money to buy food or medicine, to pay for a place to live, to replace their torn and dirty clothes. Sometimes they simply give up.

“For I was a stranger and you welcomed me; I was sick and you….:

…. offered me a cup of water, but I refused. “It isn’t water I need; I have water. I am sick; I need medicine.” Another Liberian refugee has found me at my office. A few weeks ago I helped 2 Liberians who came to my door. After they left I realized they likely made up their story in order to get money. Not that they don’t need help- God knows they do- but they have learned the survival skill of how to squeeze water from a stone: how to get some small sustenance in a terribly poor country with no social safety net. I am that stone; or net; or sponge. I soak up their stories, their desperation, and later I wring out uncontrollable sobs of vicarious traumatisation.

More and more refugees have started coming asking for help. I have opened the floodgate. This has begun to irritate my colleagues. So I decide to close the floodgate and use the formal channels of aid. I vow that no matter how convincing the story, I will be firm and send all requests to the appropriate NGO office.

It was ‘Journée Mondial pour les Refugies’- Refugee Rights Day. I had just returned to the office after participating in a ceremony attended by a number of refugees, government officials, and NGOs, all making impressive speeches. He was lying outside the office door because he could not sit. Barely able to contain his tears, he told me he had been 15 years displaced in Cameroon. He has been trying to get back to Liberia, but he fell ill here. What a way to repatriate.

Remembering my vow, I gave him money to get a local taxi to the NGO office, and sent him on his way. I tried to call to let them know he was coming, but no one was answering the phone. Then my colleagues and I prayed for him and all refugees. Was this enough? Sometimes I feel like a student driver, weaving all over the road as I over-correct. We went on with our very important meeting.

That night at home I was haunted by the image of this Liberian man. What if he was the victim helped by the Good Samaritan and I was the priest? What if he was the poor man and I was Lazarus? What if he was ‘Christ in distressing disguise’ and I referred him on? Or worse yet, what if he was like the kitten ready to give up his spirit, and in the morning I would find him lying outside my office door, with his eyes lazily opened, staring off into space?