On Being

I’d like to apologize for the infrequency of these blog posts. The other day, my mother kindly reminded me that I need to check in with her every 12 to 24 hours, so she knows that I am safe, happy, and healthy. Having said that, however, I do not regret every second I have chosen to live in the moment while I have been here. Time wraps itself around you. Before you know it, a new day and week has passed within the blink of an eye. Although this time moves quickly (quicker than one would like), that does not mean that one mindlessly goes through the motions of the day. Every day, I am left pondering how so much can happen in such a short amount of time.

These past few weeks have been a constant test of the fluctuating emotions that come with the pendulum of time. Back and forth, people come and go. Back and forth, there are highs and lows. Back and forth, time ticks on. But, here we are in the present, trying to comprehend how one foot goes in front of the other, forgetting that the pendulum is still swaying.

Time is a funny thing, and I’d like to highlight how human connection is the only thing that can make sense of this nonsensical measurement of being.

Last week at the CARA, my writing workshops were focused on the theme of “home” and “community.” Going into that week, I was cognizant of the fine line that comes with this subject. Opening up such a vulnerable and personal topic can easily lead one to the deep abyss of hidden and unprocessed emotions. Alessandra and I did our best to proceed with caution while still respecting the men and our desire to help them process their past through an art form.

To help with descriptive writing, I lead an exercise that involved describing home with the five senses. To no surprise, tears filled my eyes, as I heard these men talk about what they lost, what they missed, and what they loved. The simplest things had the biggest impact, like hugs from brothers, the beautiful eyes of their mothers, holding their child in their arms, and the traditional cuisines of their homeland. These were the sights, tastes, sounds, smells, and feelings of comfort and a simpler time.

In previous workshops, I loved having each of these men in class because they have great energy, contagious smiles, and irrefutable humor. That day, I was grateful for them being. Being present. Being brave. Being vulnerable. Being resilient.

The class was filled with men from multiple countries: the Gambia, Cameroon, Nigeria, Mali, etc. This fact, however, did not inhibit their ability to understand one another. You could see a unity and clarity in their eyes that was not restricted or separated by borders. Each man shared a piece that was missing in their lives: their sense of family and home. Before my eyes, I could see an invisible fraternal blanket cover and comfort these men.

This sense of fraternity is seen both inside and outside the classroom, out of necessity. From loss, a new sense of community and family is found. One must learn to adapt in order to survive this treacherous journey.

The following day, my writing workshop was extremely small, so I sat with my new Cameroonian friend. Still focusing on the theme of community, I asked him to write a letter to one of his friends. I watched him meticulously write each word, choosing them wisely for such a special friend. Once he finally finished and began to read it to me, his friend walked up. He was so proud to share his story with his friend, and a huge smile consumed both of their faces while the letter was read aloud.

Side note: this is a completely candid photo 

Later, my Cameroonian friend thanked me for the opportunity to write stories because he wanted to release them from his head. I fully acknowledged that I am not a psychologist or therapist; therefore, this work is out of my realm or job description. There is no way that I will understand what they have been through; this is a constant reality check for all of us completing this internship. We only know from second-hand experience the surface level of what turmoil and trials these men have been put through, yet they press on with hope for a better future. They somehow find the light.

These are a few moments when I could see the light present in people’s lives:

1. A young boy (roughly 17 years old) sat in the office with his face in the palm of his hands, drowning in his own tears. It was his first day at the center, and we quickly learned that he had lost his brother during the journey to Italy. Finally sitting in the safety of the office, he could process his loss. One of the staff members began to sing an Islamic funeral prayer song for the young boy. The boy lifted his head to listen, as tears continued to stream down his face.
2. For a few days, there was one Nigerian woman at the camp. She sat in the office, waiting to hear the news that she would be relocated to an all-women’s camp. She needed her own sense of home. While we sat with her, she shared her talent of gospel music and sang “All Power Belongs to You.” She explained that she loved music because “when you listen to music, you forget what you are thinking about, so you have hope.” Later, I drove with her to the new women’s camp, and I could tell that she was very nervous. I wanted to tell her that it’s okay to be nervous and it’s okay to cry. Since that day, I have seen her walking around Brindisi and enjoying the sites with her new friend.
3. A Nigerian man, who recently arrived at the camp, had been asking to see his wife, who was located at the all-women’s camp in the city. During their journey to Italy, the wife was pregnant and lost the baby due to the harsh conditions of their trek. This man wanted to make sure that she was safe and healthy, so he begged every day to go see her. I drove with him to see his wife for the first time. While we were in the car, he was beaming with excitement and was raving about how wonderfully in love he was. He wanted nothing but her happiness. Although they are separated, he travels to the city every day to see his wife and light of his life.

This past Monday, we arrived at the CARA to learn that 40 men would be transferred from our center to another camp. Men filed into the office to learn that they had five hours to pack and say goodbye to their friends before leaving the center. My heart sank when I began to recognize some of the faces from men in my class. To no surprise, tears filled my eyes, as I began to recount what impact they had made on my class and myself. They were a pinnacle point in the community that I had built in our workshops; it was devastating to know that they would be leaving.

Later in the day, I hosted my writing class by myself, while the other girls helped with the transfer. The class was very small, but those who were not being transferred came. I asked everyone how they were feeling. I received responses that echoed the same message: “Today is a very sad day. I never want to say goodbye to my friends.” It’s critical to reshape community and relationships when one feels torn apart, so we continued with the lesson. Laughter and creativity was shared, as we wrote a story that explained how and why dogs are obedient and loyal to mankind. I was grateful to relieve these men from the pressures and sadness of saying goodbye to friends, even if it was for only two-and-a-half hours.  

The following day, we changed the structure of class. To lighten the mood, we focused on music. After speaking with one of the psychologists and teachers at the center, we all agreed that music is lighthearted and brings joy to many of these men. Whereas, writing can often unleash some deeply rooted emotions. I am here to form relationships and build communities, not tear down one’s being. Although the class was initially timid, I heard a range of sounds and songs composed by the men with the use of instruments and their voices in a variety of languages. One man set the tone for the class by singing Amazing Grace, followed by a song that begged everyone to “forget the troubles of yesterday.” I could see the new community forming out of vulnerability and trust.  

 

Yesterday, there were forty more men who were transferred from our center to a new center. I couldn’t imagine going through this process again; however, this time, we were in charge of everything. We, the interns, had to find every man, notify him that he was being transferred, and inform him that he had five hours to pack, collect his pocket money, and say goodbye to his friends.

Scrolling down the list of men, I was devastated to see one of my Cameroonian friends amongst the transfers. Although we had only met the previous week, time is irrelevant when it comes to making connections with the heart. When I told him that he was leaving Restinco, he looked broken and kept repeating that he didn’t want to leave. I reassured him that he was leaving with his best friend (the one whom he wrote a letter to the previous week). Inconsistent change takes a toll on the mind and body, but having a friend by your side relieves some of the pressure.

I enjoyed one last lunch with some of the men who were transferring, which was a very surreal moment. I had seen some of these men at the port two weeks ago when they arrived by sea, and that day I was saying goodbye to them. They were moving onto the next step of their asylum process. The meal was completed with some entertainment by two Cameroonian friends, who began to sing “C’est la Vie.” Life does not always make sense; however, no matter the time, the people who enter and leave your life leave an impression on your heart. It’s a part of life.

After lunch, we completed the final step of the transfer process, which is taking roll and sending the men on vans to the new location. There is only one small van that can hold 7 or 8 men at once, so this process can take a lot of time. Typically, the men would just be sitting, waiting, and having the uncertainty of the future consume their minds. We refused to let this happen, so we collected the instruments from my music class and brought them into the room. We let the men create music, sing, and dance while they waited to leave. Rather than be fearful of the future, we wanted them to unite as a community and be excited for the next step of their journey. Together, they would continue on.

Another week has ended, and the time that remains seems far too short. Although ‘the end’ has been hanging over my head, I am not letting this dictate or control how I spend my time. Each day, I choose to live in the moment, to intentionally create human connections and friendships, and to remember the pendulum of time will continue to rock back and forth. I must use my time of service wisely.

A dopo,

the chameleon