Recently, I've been reading up on different refugee situations around the globe. More than three years after a thirty-six hour period of being a refugee myself, I still can't read about real world crises without thinking of my own, imagining if that horror had been magnified. It was a global missions class the last semester of my senior year, and part of the deal was signing up for a simulated refugee weekend. We had to wear rough clothes and bring only what we could carry on our backs. In class, we were assigned "families" with a head male, a head woman, and a few others. Many of the girls were made to wear baby dolls as simulated infants.I dug up the ten-page response paper I had written after Refugee Weekend, and with very slight modifications/editing for clarity, here is what I gave Dr. Cook on February 22, 2009.It was February in rural Ohio. It was Hell.“Rebecca, Rebecca, get up,” Becky was shaking me in my sleeping bag, and I shook my head, trying to escape the Muslim call to prayer that was singing loudly in my dream. But it wasn’t a dream, and I opened my eyes to an almost cinematic panorama: a red, sun-rising sky back-dropping a hearse-looking vehicle flanked by what appeared to be a funeral train stopped in front of an 18th century style brick house. I was in front of a campfire several hundred yards to the front side of this house, and the rest of my large group was furiously packing sleeping bags and gear. My heart slid into my stomach for the fiftieth time in as many hours: ‘I am a refugee.’
The night before had seemed like a long nightmare. At first, it was ok—I was playacting, and even the soldiers didn’t alarm me. But it lasted what seemed like an eternity, and it was so cold. I was ready to be done, and the worse thing about it was the entire time I kept realizing that tomorrow wouldn’t even be the end. We still had another two days and night. The thought kept driving me crazy. The van ride to a different location was wonderful—a whole ten minutes in a warm vehicle. But that was followed by another two awful hours, and I wondered at the houses that didn’t awake to the sound of tractors and marching hoards in the nighttime. ‘If my dogs were going crazy at 2am I think I’d want to know. Cook might know a few of these people and be able to warn them about his evil plot, but not all of them. I wish they’d call the cops and make this stop.’ When I at last fell into a troubled, freezing sleep at the refugee camp, I dreamt of my family and I escaping and running. I felt myself shivering all night, and for these reasons the Muslim call to prayer was both a relief and a dread.
“When I write my memoirs,” I told my family, “This chapter will be entitled, ‘The Prolonged Nightmare.’” They laughed, ruefully.
I scrambled to pack my things, then Dr. Cook came over and told us that to avoid future problems and demands from our guides, we needed to cough up all our food for them. I was already trying to figure out how to make what I had last through the weekend: I had been forced to throw some fruit to the masked marauders the previous night. We all started rummaging for the food in our bags. I started pulling out my two apples and the stack of granola bars that I was carrying for my family. Almost instinctively, I slid an extra granola bar into the cargo pocket of my camouflage pants. I had already put one there the night before, and I knew that if I had two, my family members would each be able to have a bite. If nothing else, it might boost our morale enough to help us carry on. I also decided to overlook the Army-packaged crackers and peanut butter in my bag. In the flat brown packages, they didn’t even look like food, and I figured if I could hold onto them a little longer they might help us survive til Sunday. I didn’t think of the ramifications of hiding food from Dr. Cook. I didn’t think of the sin of “lying.” I was thinking survival tactics, and of my family.
But while I was unloading my bag, I hastily unwrapped a half-frozen granola bar and stuffed it into my mouth, chewing discreetly as I made two trips to the food bin to dump my small handfuls. I didn’t care. I was the only one who hadn’t eaten when we had arrived at the refugee camp at 3:30 that morning, and I knew I simply had to have that granola bar, and I wouldn’t let it go without a fight!
Later that morning, we took old supplies from the barn to build a shanty. I was a champion fort-builder in my youthful tomboy days, but I was so cold and tired that it was hard to be motivated. All I wanted to do was sleep in front of the fire anyway: I thought it was pointless to build a shelter so far away from the fire that wouldn’t keep us warm. I also had the continually lurking thought that it wouldn’t matter anyway—that our shelter was going to be torn down by the same jerks that had harassed us all night. I wasn’t wrong, it turned out.
While we were building, people in camouflage started walking around. One nasty-looking girl was taking pictures. I thought that was dumb. ‘She’s documenting our pain while working to enhance it’. Another, with a beard, annoyed me even more. He was sauntering around with coffee, and later came swaggering by eating something in a bowl. I wasn’t super hungry, but it irritated me, and made me almost lust after something hot to drink or even just hot water to wrap my hands around. ‘I hate him. I fucking hate him.’ If they could use the language they spoke so carefreely, so could I.
It was frustrating.
My family’s head male was actually pretty weak and soft-spoken. He didn’t take charge much. So it was probably a good thing that we teamed up with a small family of four that seemed like real-life married couples. The two men took charge of the building project, and did a good job. I pitched in here and there; gathering bricks, offering advice, gathering hay for chinking the walls, and things like that. But it was still frustrating, because I felt helpless, and unmotivated, and unappreciated because I wasn’t being asked to do anything. The guys were doing most of it, and three of the other girls were proactively offering help more than I.
After that, Samaritan’s Purse came. I was actually surprised, and thought that in real refugee situation this would be a once-every-100-days opportunity. I still wasn’t super hungry at this point, but the rice and lentils were delicious. Once I started eating I became hungrier, however, and then we didn’t have enough to satisfy me. It struck me as ironic and typical that the SP girls handed out tiny portions, said “God bless you,” and left. This was frustrating, too. ‘I’m thankful for their kindness, but if this is how a lot of aid operations work in reality, it’s a sad scenario. Not enough supplies, and not much connection with the people. A simple “God bless you” will suffice.’
Then around 11 or noon (we now had no semblance of time since our watches were confiscated as well, and it was driving me nuts—we kept taking bets on the current time) the inevitable happened. Aaron, my head male, and I noticed soldiers crouching around the side of the barn. I immediately ran back through camp to warn the others, and we started gathering, rucksacks at the ready. Eventually, when the raid happened, they yelled at us to drop our bags. Knowing that they would be “safe” at Dr. Cook’s house was the only reason I dropped mine. I don’t think I would have in a real refugee situation. But then again, in a real crisis, the guns would have fired bullets, too.
The daytime walk wasn’t as painful as the night one. In fact, if my feet hadn’t hurt from the night before the first five minutes were almost pleasant. It was “British weather”—chilly, misted and foggy. But there was light, and it was almost warm, walking. The soldiers weren’t even wearing masks, and I recognized half of them. I felt more and more like this was a simulation. This, too, was frustrating, because here were these people I knew who were making my life so miserable! I started thinking of it even more as a fake scenario and not a real refugee crisis. But then they made us stop for a long period of time. Standing.
It was incredibly frustrating.
At this point, I was getting angry. ‘This isn’t a refugee scenario, this is a torture situation. They’re standing around for no apparent reason talking. I am so exhausted. Standing would be an excellent torture tactic. I wonder if they do this at Guantanamo. I should suggest it instead of waterboarding.’ I was standing in the middle of the group, and with my Islamic head scarf I couldn’t see much. After a time, we began walking again and I perked up. Then we stopped and were ordered to our knees. It hurt, but I put my head down. I was terrified the soldiers were going to search our pockets and find my granola bars. All I could think about was going back to camp and eating my forbidden crackers. ‘If only I hadn’t given up my apples. That would have tasted so good with the peanut butter…’
I fell asleep. Broad daylight, hunched over in the middle of the road, I drifted out of consciousness. I moaned when the shouting soldiers brought us back. They singled out the Jews this time, but on our way back separated men from women and sent us back alone. It was frightening. Not as much as it would have been in a real situation, because by this time I was comfortable and angry in my situation. I wasn’t scared, just mad. But then we got back to camp and it was a disaster. It had truly been ransacked, and not only were our shelters destroyed, but our bags had been taken apart and strewn all over camp and into the desolate fields. I was about to throw a fit. This stuff is borrowed! How am I supposed to explain to Breanna that I lost all her gear? Why did they do this? I am so pissed off that they took those crackers AND the peanut butter!
I stumbled out to the field to get my sleeping bag. While I stood there, ready to cry tears of rage, I remembered something wondrous. I still had the rest of my chocolate coins in my inside jacket pocket from the night before! I couldn’t believe my good luck. I looked around slowly, to make sure no one was around, then slid my hand into my pocket, unwrapped it with one hand, and pulled it out and ate it, slowly dissolving the delicious wonder.
My strength renewed, I returned to camp and began re-packing. The men returned and began rebuilding the shelter. I found a brown, squashed banana that still had an edible half. I ate it. Then, amidst toilet paper scraps and sticks, I found a package of “Fruit Smiles,” the WalMart fruit snacks that my Dad and I love. I picked it up. It was unopened, and not even wet. It wasn’t mine, it must have been ransacked from someone else and dropped. ‘Oh my gosh. I am so happy. They are so stupid to have missed this! They can’t take everything from me, even if they try!’
Later, Cook made us catch and kill chickens to eat for dinner. I had seen this atrocity take place before—my Dad raised turkeys and used to do it. But I had sworn I would never be party to it, and I didn’t believe Cook was actually going to make us do it until the first one was killed. ‘I won’t, I can’t, I’m not hungry enough to do this!’ He kept saying, “If you had children, and they were starving, you would do it.” It was so frustrating. ‘But I don’t have children! And I’m NOT a refugee! And this is a sick waste of tons of chickens—we can survive the night without them! If anything, you should just give us back our food!’
But kill we did. Aaron and I were the last to kill one, and it made me ill, but by this point I was so sick and cold and determined to get the job done. “Aaron, you have to get it in one or two blows,” I said. I don’t care what you do. It’s bad enough to do this to it but to let it suffer like that and prolong it…” He nodded solemnly. I held it firmly as Aaron slashed at its head. I felt its body shaking and tremoring, and I felt the life in its organs running up and down the body after the head was severed. Plucking it was miserable. It was so cold and freezing rain had come, and my hands became numb the second I pulled them out of my gloves. We had to wait forever for our turn to use the knife. By that time, some of the first families had already finished cooking their chicken, and it looked so good, which made me frustrated yet again because how could it look delicious when I claimed I wasn’t that hungry and I had just seen how it came to be?
Then they killed a lamb. I didn’t see it, but I heard it die. I refused to look but I was too paralyzed to run and I had to hear it. . I didn’t believe he was going to kill it right there, either, but he did. I was livid. Cook gave a speech about how life and sacrifice is beautiful. But I hated him. I hated him. I hated everyone. I hated the girls who were crying tears of beautiful joy and embracing this turbulent time of growth. I hated the weak college boys around me who were supposed to be strong and brave and helpful. I hated everyone who wasn’t enraged and starting a revolution. I hated myself for the same. Somebody commented later that the analogy of the lamb to the life of Christ Cook made was beautiful. I suppose it was, but I was so cold I didn’t hear much. And I was so angry about the unnecessary life of the lamb being lost that I was mad, and didn’t draw the connection until after the weekend.
But after that, with a renewed sense of determination, I took over the cutting from Aaron and finished gutting and dicing our chicken. I started ordering him around, frustrated with his lack of ability to be on top of things and BE A MAN. I made him cook it, and was frustrated that he took so long to even get started. ‘I would get stuck with a lame family like this. Mark and Andrew are such good family heads—Aaron is so passive! I wish Haddon hadn’t dropped out…’
I ate the chicken. It was grilled and burnt, and the 8 bites I got from my half didn’t seem worth the work and the sacrifice. But I ate. Then, ashamed, I went to the outhouse and pulled out a contraband granola bar from my pocket and scarfed it down. My hands were non-functional, but I ate, and drank more water than I had previously the entire weekend. I was ready for the next raid.
But it never came, and stressed, dying of smoke inhalation, and dehydration, I stood by the fire. We wanted to fix the roof of our tent that was coming undone, but were afraid we’d have to start running for our lives and didn’t want anyone stuck in the small crawl area that was our home. The water ran out, and people went to get some, but reported that Cook said he’d take care of it. He came out, and I asked again. He said to come get it in five minutes, but I suspected ambush, so I never went back. I bummed water off my family after coercing them out of the barn. We stood ready at the fireside.
‘It must be ten o’clock by now. Why aren’t we doing anything? I’m not complaining, I like this fire. But it’s so stressful to have to sit here with the pack and not know.’ Eventually, my family and I decided not to go back to our shelter, but to sleep cuddled next to each other and the fire. It was uncomfortable, and sandwiched between two fires I couldn’t breathe, even with my head scarf on my face. Yet I was still freezing. I drifted into sleep for probably about ten minutes, the wind whipping overhead. ‘Why do I always get stuck on the end of the spoon lines? I want to be in the middle. But I’m glad Jordan is on my back. I like having him around. I didn’t think I’d like having him in our family but he’s a good guy…’
It was frustrating. It seemed like a step outside reality. It was frustrating. It was the most miserable 36-or-so hours of my entire life. It was so frustrating. That’s all I kept thinking, over and over and over again.
One of the reasons I think it was so frustrating was because I realized I really have NO tolerance for pain. I get cold so quickly under normal circumstances, and after a short while I just become miserable. I would have died without the continuous fire—in fact, at camp I barely left it. Yet it never satisfied me. Towards the end of our stay, as we restlessly drifted in and out of consciousness waiting for the next raid, I was so close to the fire that it MELTED the sole off my US Army-issued field boots, yet I was still shivering with cold. When we were in the barn during the afternoon, waiting for rain and snow to subside so we could cook our chicken, my hands were so numb they wouldn’t work. I couldn’t function. The fire drew me to it, and I couldn’t stay away. Yet I could feel the flames dehydrating me and pouring putrid smoke into my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes, bloodshot before the weekend had even started because of lack of sleep, grew more bloodshot and eventually the “whites of my eyes” were a long-lost legend.
As we waited in purgatory for Hell to continue, suddenly, a caravan of white vans arrived. We were hustled to the other side of the barn where they waiting, again driven by black masked, ninja-like hulks in the darkness, the vans’ exhaust pipes trembling and smoking as they waited for their cargo. We stumbled in, and I didn’t care where they were taking us because it was warm. We were crowded close together, and even if the heat wasn’t on, we were out of the wind amongst trapped body heat. I was so tired. The heat slowly started unfreezing my brain and I became curious.
Suddenly, I knew where we were. In the black cornfields and back roads, I felt the school approaching. And suddenly, there it was. The ninjas hopped out, ushered us out of the vans in front of the student center, not unkindly. The lights of my own dorm twinkled a few feet away.
I thought it was a trick. I thought for sure they were taunting us—that we’d walk halfway home and then be chased and captured again. I walked hesitantly, lost and nervous to leave without the ninja escort. I put one foot in front of the other slowly. Then I ran. And ran. And ran. And they didn’t catch me.
As a woman, I also felt out of place because I was one of the few women not pregnant and without a child. At first I was incredibly thankful that I wasn’t “selected” to carry one. I have a bad back, and my rucksack was painful enough. Yet at the same time, I felt somewhat left out, because it seemed that every other girl had one, and a lot of the fathers/family members went out of their way to help each other or take on extra burdens for the women with children/unborns. It made me realize that in cultures such as these or extremist situations are how women are valued: if they have children. As one who ensures the family’s longevity as a continuing heritage, that is the only way women are valued in some cultures. And as a refugee I had no children, was not expecting any, yet I didn’t have the leadership status of a head male. And so I seemed to have no significance: I was merely another member of the family who followed along and attempted to survive. I had no real contribution or reason to survive—I wasn’t furthering the family genealogy or a hard working male.
Then we had to wear the Islamic head coverings. On the one hand, mine was a blessing and helped keep me warm and keep my tangled hair out of sight. I’m surprised Islamic nations aren’t in more cold-weather states. It would make more sense to have abundant garb in Siberia than in Iraq. On the other hand, it was humiliating and set us as women even further apart from the men. It was almost demeaning—made us all look the same. More than once, a man in a family—even from my own family—would address me by a different name accidentally, because one really had to look close to tell us apart under the black swathes of fabric.
It was frustrating. From the moment we started. From the week before, when the stress began to mount.
In the beginning, as we were waiting, standing around for almost three hours, waiting for the word to move, waiting to leave campus for this horrible experience, a lot of friends and people we knew all walked by us the SSC. They would inquire as to our lounging about in strange attire, and we would explain our imminent situation. Almost universally, time after time, the response was “Have fun!” A few more sensitive friends would acknowledge the somberness of what we were about to do, but the normal rejoinder made me wonder if we as a culture are SO deadened by the overuse of the word “refugee” that we don’t realize what it means to be one.
That night, my roommate wasn’t home. Good thing, or I would have literally smoked her out. It took me a long time to peel off all my clothes, reeking of smoke, and my boots, half melted. I limped to the shower and tried to wash it all off. Yet after the shower, my skin was raw and smoky, still. My eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. I felt sick, but not hungry. I went downstairs to find a vending machine and buy some juice. Two of my friends were studying in the lobby and looked at me in horror. I was clean and in fresh lounge attire, yet I still looked like I’d been through a war. They offered to get me juice and I gave them some money and waited for them to come back. I took it and thanked them with thick tongue and chafed lips, and Michael and Stephanie were sympathetic and kind, but I could feel their eyes boring into my back as I stumbled back upstairs to bed.
I slept five hours, then awoke because I was so hot. I opened my window, and almost died realizing the relativity of comfort. After that weekend, I thought I’d never open my window again. After five minutes, I closed it, so relieved that I had the power to control my body temperature like that. I breathed a prayer of thanks and fell back asleep for another six hours. Then I did some homework and then took another nap.
The first morning back at school, I was reading a book on terrorism for another class, and read the story of a hostage situation in Russia/Chechnya. It seemed so similar to the situation I had just faced, and put a whole new understanding for me on crises like these. I think it would be dangerous to say I can relate. It would also be false. But this tiny taste of torture and the way in which I could barely even endure it was a very healthy global reality check that I won’t soon forget.
The whole time, I was still frustrated by the after effects of such a short weekend and how awful my body reacted. I felt like a fool. I consider myself to be relatively in shape, but my whole body was sore, my eyes hurt, I could barely talk, and I felt dehydrated/smoke poisoned. After only 36 hours of Hell…and that is only Hell when speaking relatively to my everyday life. For millions of refugees every day, what I went through might have seemed much more plus. It was so frustrating, and still is. But I think I know what I need to do now.
Doing our part to upkeep the Wall.
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