Muzoon: A Syrian Refugee Speaks Out by Muzoon Almellehan & Wendy Pearlman

Author:Muzoon Almellehan & Wendy Pearlman [Almellehan, Muzoon & Pearlman, Wendy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2023-05-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

I was out walking with Mohammed and Tayyim one day when I saw a long line of people snaking from one of the distribution centers. People were lined up to pick up food baskets. There were people of all shapes and sizes, but everyone was equally tired and dusty. I heard the scuffle as some people stepped out of line to accuse others of jumping the queue.

“Refugees, stand in line against the wall,” I heard an aid worker call out.

There was that word again, used with that tone. I turned my eyes from the scene, preferring to look at the sandy ground. I felt embarrassed, and also embarrassed that I felt embarrassed.

Most of the people from other countries who worked in the camp were wonderful. The teachers, volunteers, and aid workers made our lives better. Some would become my lifelong friends.

But sometimes, the way they said “the refugees” or “the Syrians” hit me like a punch. Their intentions were good, but the tone…It was as if we were lesser. Inferior or incapable. Like babies.

The truth is that we did need help. People had lost everything and couldn’t stand up on their feet again without some assistance. But we had minds and skills. We were able to work. To think, learn, achieve, build, and create. There was a revolution because people wanted to live with dignity. Anything that denied Syrians their dignity did the same to me. Disrespect was the one thing that I refused to accept.

My very worst day in the camp was an encounter with disrespect. It was our day to pick up our food basket. Dad and Mohammed were both busy, so I was the only one available to go.

I took my place at the end of a long line outside a big tent. The sun was scorching and I dripped with sweat. As I waited, I heard the usual jumble of arguments from others in line.

“Hey, I was here first!”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The stress of what people had endured didn’t always bring out the best in them. Some people fought over small things. I didn’t get it. Here we were all equal. We had the same cup and the same spoon. Sometimes trucks came filled with jackets or T-shirts donated by some country or organization. Everyone would get one. All people, big and small, would then be dressed identically. No one could claim to be better than anyone else. Still, the arguments in line were a constant.

“No cutting!”

“That’s my place!”

The sun kept beating down on us. The line moved so slowly that I wondered if it was moving at all. Finally I reached the tent. There I waited more. I was tired and thirsty. I wondered if I was going crazy.

“Syrians, stand in line!”

I kept waiting.

I’d spent almost the whole morning in line. Finally, it was my turn to enter the second tent, where they gave you your supplies. I stepped in that direction and a harsh voice shouted.

“You! Stop.”

A volunteer pointed at me. I could hear that his accent was Syrian.

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