Short Story: Grateful

Grateful

Story by Rachel Davis Photo editing by Nouf al-Saud

The topic of refugees came up a lot at Kori’s school. A week would not go by without it being brought up at least once. Everyone had opinions about it. Some people welcomed refugees, others were indifferent, and other people did not agree with letting them in.

Kori was one of those people, but the opinion was based on her hate and disrespect of what she assumed and knew of the refugees’ beliefs and way of life. She didn’t know much about the refugees, and didn’t care to do the research either. She just watched mainstream media every once in awhile. All she could see in headlines was “Terrorist” and the judgement went straight to the refugees.

One day Kori went to see her aunt up in Roseburg, Oregon. Her mom dropped her off after an almost three hour drive from Roseburg, and planned to leave her there for 2 weeks. Kori said her goodbyes, got out of the car, opened the gate, and knocked on the door.

Her aunt Rose opened the door and gave her a big hug.

“You’re so grown up now!” she said sounding ecstatic.

“I haven’t seen you in so long.” Kori replied.

They walked inside and started talking about school and home life. Rose pointed towards the guest bedroom and she trotted over to put her stuff down in the room. She was welcomed with a queen-sized bed covered with white sheets and blankets, topped with a beautiful purple-and-white quilt that seemed to be handmade.

Kori moved her gaze to the TV set in front of the bed against the wall. The TV was about the size of a regular house computer, but it was good enough to fit her interest. Next to the TV was a small picture frame with a picture of her aunt and what she assumed was a student of hers.

The student had dark skin, brown eyes, and she wore a tinted lavender hijab covering her hair, sides of her face, and neck. She looked to be about 13 years old. She wore a long black dress that draped over her legs and concealed her arms.

Kori stared at the picture, admiring how different they looked. Rose had pale and freckled skin, green eyes, and faded ginger hair that spiraled down in curls, and looked like she was in her early thirties.

Rose walked by and stopped at the door frame and smiled.

“That’s Rima.” She said. “She’s one of the girls I taught English to when I lived in Germany.” She stepped closer and looked at the picture.

“She didn’t know English?” Kori asked.

“No, she came to Germany with her parents from Syria a couple years ago as refugees.”

Kori’s face dropped slightly. “Oh.” She muttered and put the picture down.

“What?” Rose asked.

“I just don’t really agree with the refugees coming here. They have nothing in common with us.” She paused. “I watch the news and see a bunch of bad stories.”

“Well, you didn’t seem to be upset when you were looking at the picture.” She snapped back.

“Whatever.” Kori said as she lugged her suitcase on the bed and opened it as she went through her things. There was an awkward silence that followed. Kori just focused on her suitcase hoping to ease the tension.

“I taught her for three years. She got really good, she was a very smart girl. I taught her parents and brother as well.” Rose finally said.

“You taught her parents?”

“Yeah. Didn’t your mom tell you I taught refugees for a little while?”

“She told me you taught.” Kori started putting her clothes in the closet. “I just assumed she meant at regular school.”

“Your mother doesn’t tell you anything,” muttered Rose. She stared for a couple of seconds, then her eyes got big and a small smile crept on her face. “I have an idea,” she said.

“You like reading?”

Kori pulled out the two books she packed. Rose’s smile got slightly bigger and she nodded.

“Wait here then,” Rose said, before leaving the room.

About 10 minutes later, Kori walked into the living room and saw Rose sitting on the floor pulling boxes from the shelf behind the couch and filing through them.

“What are you doing?” Kori asked as she stepped closer.

Rose’s eyes lit up and she quickly pulled out a piece of paper. “Aha!” “What is that?”

Rose stood up and handed it to her. Kori took the paper and looked at the top. It said Rima’s name.

“Why do you want me to read this?” Kori asked, harshly.

Rose put the boxes away and walked into the kitchen.

“I think it will give you a better understanding. She wrote that on her last year of learning English. Just read it.”

There was a pause as Rose leaned over and pulled a watering pot out of the cabinet.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to water the plants in my room,” she said. Rose walked down the hall and into her room and shut the door.

Kori sighed and walked into her room and sat on the bed.

“This is stupid,” she said to herself. Then she began reading the paper.

***

My name is Rima, and this is my journey to Germany.

Syria was no longer a safe place for my family and me. Explosions were everywhere.

Lots of people died; it was a warzone. My parents told me of this place called Europe, and that it was safe there and we could finally be free. We were able to bring both my parents and my three little brothers.

We got here by a boat in the water. We went through so much water. The ocean felt like it would never end. On the boat were so many people, I counted at the time, but I don’t remember anymore. It felt like weeks went by. People around me were hungry and tired. Many got sick from the movement of the waves. Many also died and we had to throw their bodies overboard.

Two of my brothers died. My mother screamed, praying for them to still be alive. I

remember crying that day. I wasn’t able to stop for a long time. A lot of mothers did the same thing with their children.

It was awful, having to watch them react to their children being thrown overboard. I

understood why we had to do it, but it was so shattering to the soul. They were just suddenly gone and taken away in seconds.

The only thing I have left of my brothers are the memories of them playing and being

children.

Refugees on a boat crossing the Mediterranean Sea from Turkey to the Greek island of Lesbos on Jan. 29, 2016 Photo by Mstyslav Chernov/Unframe at Wikimedia Commons/Creative Commons 4.0

When we got to Europe, I heard about the people not wanting to accept us in. They hated us, yet we had done nothing. I didn’t want people to hate me. I was supposed to be safe, just like my mother and father told me.

With what was left of my family, we eventually made it to a refugee camp.

The people volunteering there were so nice. They looked different from us, sounded different from us, had different religions than us, but all that mattered to me was that they were willing to help through these terrible times.

Refugee child at a camp in Greece gets a light from nonprofit Operation Blessing on March 29, 2016 Photo by Chris Morrow at Wikimedia Commons/Creative Commons 4.0

While we were in the camp, we were taught English and bits of other European languages. The younger kids did crafts. We got new clothes that were donated. They gave us good food, and we had shelter.

Refugee camp at Simbach am Inn, Germany on Oct. 24, 2015 Photo by Christian Michelides at Wikimedia Commons/Creative Commons 4.0

Even after everything that happened I was so thankful to end up here. This place

gives me hope for my future, and for my family’s future.

I am grateful.

Kori stared at that last line for a while. “I am grateful,” she kept repeating. It made her

reflect on her opinion about the refugees, and why she had that opinion.

After reading the story of a real refugee who was roughly the same age as she was, for the first time Kori really thought about the fact that the refugees are people with families and fears just like everyone else, not just numbers.

She had finally opened her eyes.

Cover photo: Mediterranean Sea in southern France. Photo by Spacebirdy/Myndir at Wikimedia Commons/Creative Commons 2.5