When I first started working with refugees, I gave out my phone number. oops, big mistake. I got lots of calls for rides to the grocery store, borrowing money, lots of complaining calls.
That third of July I got a call from a hysterical Afghan woman. I could barely make out what she was saying but I understood that she was sure war is breaking out. She was screaming. I tried to tell her about the 4th of July. FIRE CRACKERS, I said.
She was pretty good with English but not fantastic, and I didn't think she understood. I end up driving to her apartment. She was still crying when I got there and it's a fifteen minute drive (doesn't sound like much, but really, try crying for 15 minutes. It's more difficult to do than you think. And she'd must have been doing it for a while.)
I described the holiday, draw pictures of the fireworks that'll be happening the next day. I managed to get the point across. She smiled and even laughed like she was embarrassed and left me on the couch to go talk to her kids.
That apartment had to be about 90 degrees and she went into the other, stuffier room and opened the closet door. The two kids were huddled in there and they refused to get out. It was so hot and they'd been crying--I thought they had to be dehydrated, seriously. We gave them drinks but they would not get out of the closet. When I left about an hour later, those kids were still in there. At least they weren't crying and they had sort of set up a comfy spot. It was so hot I went home and got a fan so at least the air would be moving.
I wasn't going to be around the next day--I was going away for the holidays. By then she was embarrassed and told me she'd be fine. I didn't see a lot of her again after that (she settled in and I think she was still embarrassed) . . .but she did tell me that no matter what she said to coax them out, her kids slept in the hot closet for nights after that, the way they'd done at home.
I can't even remember her name--although I could probably get it from another afghan widow who used to call me all the time to go to the grocery store. (I was a real pushover back then)
Even though I can't remember her name, that war widow and her kids had a big impact on me. Every time I hear the fireworks, I remember the reality they're based on. I used to love the way you can feel the sound--but now I can only see it the way those terrified kids in the closet did.
I told a psychologist friend about that family and she wondered if those kids might have been fine if their mother was less jumpy. I said they were probably better off than a lot of the other kids who'd lived through war and ended up with the same fear of guns. That woman's kids at least had one parent left to protect and reassure them.
War survivors with no damage? Tchah. Bullshit. I'm convinced war leaves scars on or in everyone who lives through it.