ESSAY 3 - "HONOURABLE MENTION"

"If I Were a Refugee..."

Flipping through canals. Her brown hand on the remote. I can feel the shadows in my soul tossing and turning, they will eventually be awake, demanding my attention. But not yet. I’m in a little bubble of peace.

              She is sitting like a statue next to me. The only thing witnessing her being alive is her knob on the TV-remote. Again and again and again. Lives and stories floating by. I know her name and home country. I do not need to know more, here we are all alone.

              Shouting voices are screaming on the TV. I’m sitting with my doll, Rosa, with brown locks and sparkling black eyes. I want to look like here when I’m a grownup, but my mamma says it’s impossible. The voices are getting louder. The sound of tramping feet. The small stones next to Rosa are shaking, and I can feel the soil under my knees vibrating. It feels kind of funny. “Veronika!” my mamma shrieks. I’m having fun, I don’t want to come right now. Hands are grabbing me. It’s my mamma. I’m twisting and turning, but she is too strong. Her grip is hurting. Rosa is on the ground. Her face is being smashed to pieces under the merciless tramping feet. Hot, burning tears are streaming down my face. A sparkling black eye is watching me.

              A brown finger pressing on the knob.

A blistering fire. Yellow and red flames eat up my prettiest pair of shoes. I wore them, when I had my first kiss, I wore them, when I was happy. It’s cold outside, too cold. They turned off the heating. My lips are blue.

              Switch of channels.

The landscape is rushing by. We have been split up into two busses. I feel it in my soul, before I hear it. The sound of horror. The other bus is exploding into a million of fragments flying through the air. The bus with my family. The bus with my heart. The bus ...

              My sight is blurred. I can taste the salty tears. A sympathetic, brown hand on my shoulder. No words are spoken, but the warmness of another spirit is comforting. I will never forget the past, and I will always be homeless. But perhaps future is not sorrow only, and maybe one day I can be part of this foreign country.

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