Now We Are Free

Now We Are Free Turmoil of Refugees Copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo ON, 2019

Now We Are Free

The camp looms ahead Dusty and desperate Little Mustafa has borne up

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Walking so many miles Hot, so very hot And confused at the Hasty shut-down of the Village.

Home by the river.

Games with water birds And stream side mud castles.

The rebels came like A night time explosion.

Fires, bullets, shrieks And Uncle Solomon Lying there so very still.

Hurriedly gathering foodstuffs

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And blankets for six days Of tortuous marching.

Ahead now the compound.

Seemingly quiet Some Red Cross tents Food commissaries.

Five good wells And much circle singing Story telling And hand clapping routines.

Mother recognizes her Sister Anna and wails out Welcome and thanks.

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But the dark?

Yes the dark with its anarchy Theft torment and rape.

Where to travel next?

More on foot?

Who will take us in?

Where comes the food And new beginnings?

Just Like That February 03, 2012

The American had really enjoyed the flight in the single engine craft until over the horizon he saw it. Stretching for excruciating miles over the dust and sad vestiges of vegetation. The refugee camp.

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The noise of their approach had scarcely raised a head in the heat, exhaustion and brilliance of mid-day. Deceleration across the dirt track had been surprisingly quick. The Agency's Rover was already there with the Belgian, Andreas and his one very thin nurse Miranda, standing at attention and shielding their eyes.

"Welcome to the new nation, my friend; it's a far cry from Fort Worth, isn't it?"

"Greetings Andreas, your arrangements have all been meticulous, really.

I am thrilled to be here. I must gather the data and the photos and the interviews to make a convincing pitch back home. What I see here is really overwhelming!"

"Not so fast. First a humble lunch of welcome at the main tent. I want you to meet the key doctors and water specialists. Four of the fifteen are from the States. They have all read about your comparative success in two other camps and they are very hopeful. Then an introductory drive around the camp and to the admissions sector where things get tense. So many, my friend, so many..."

The meal had been surprisingly tasty and entirely local. The conversation heightened, yet comfortable. One doctor knew the American's brother

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from college. He had taken eighteen months off already from a successful obstetrics practice in New Orleans.

The tour seemed like miles of the same thing. Mothers shielding babies from the sun. Young children still trying to run in short bursts from one shading canopy to the next. Fathers sitting in small circles with the ubiquitous pipes and a look of sad accountability for the perplexity of their families.

On the hour different tents opened for different health needs. All faces would turn with a noticeable frequency in the direction of the food dispensaries.

The American took one of his new doctor friends on a short walk. They noticed an elderly man, shirtless, gaunt and sitting against a tripod of sorts with occasional use for supporting washing pots. This was a place of water, but it was apparent that the commodity was so much in demand and dwindling. He spoke some French and they were all able to understand each other.

The doctor was called away briefly by an acquaintance, one of the sector councilmen who had chosen to stay behind to help after two exodus movements from the camp.

The American continued his chat with the old man. A knowing twinkle still in the eyes. A hint of education and poise from a former life before

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the insurrections. His breath came in short, raspy puffs. Obviously he was parched with thirst. And alone.

"Sir, I am going to go and find you a drink. Just relax."

"Monsieur, that would be exquisite, merci."

Rejoining the doctor, the newcomer scrounged in amazement for the next twenty minutes until success. Smiling broadly with an apple juice size of can half-filled with copper-coloured water, he paced bending over toward the elder.

Still leaning against the tripod. Eyes closed. Suggestion of a contented smile on the wrinkled face. No raspy puffs. Dead. Just like that...

Note:​ Heard a testimony somewhat like this from missionary-evangelist Peter Pretorius of Africa. He has been engaged for years in mission feeding programs in cooperation with James and Betty Robison.

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Eavesdropping on God Posted on ​June 21, 2013​ by ​issuudotcomslashdewane

I can do this all day.

As the world turns around.

Night-time dreams elevate The Dark Continent.

Busy housewife senses my touch As she wipes a teary cheek In Wisconsin.

(Baby won’t stop crying from colic.)

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Store owner prays in Manchester.

Small fire and water damage To most of his next-season stock.

A robin falls from A wind-swept nest In the bush outside Timmins.

Young Jason with the game leg Hides in a driveway From those bullies Who hound him after school.

Marjorie talks to Fred in his photograph On the dresser at the old home.

I bring her warm memories Of their first summer together And the good news of baby number one​.

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Sarah…she grew up to be an optometrist.

Traveling to refugee camps In that Dark Continent.

I love this.

It is running as it should.

Daily I am discovered By more honest seekers.

Jesus, Son, we are doing it Wait ’til we get ’em all together.

Seems just around the corner.

Teki the Eritrean

Lunch buzzer went off. He removed his leather apron, shut off the big belt sander and brushed the dust out of his long black locks. He and I had settled into a mid-day routine in the sunlight at the back loading dock. Items scrounged on credit from the mid-morning lunch truck were the main event…and the most interesting conversation.

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Teki had a pretty good hold on his English with an evident Italian bounce and vivacity. From his war-torn homeland he had made it to the “country of the boot” as a domestic servant. He said that it was akin to house slavery for a budding young man in his upper teens. And the svelte women over there seemed to like the mystery of dark suitors. His days off held out many amorous adventures, incomparable coffee and renowned plates of pasta. Not bad for an Eritrean lad who remembered three-day childhood hikes in the desert sun to neighbouring market villages. And all for a couple of baskets full of goat cheeses, breads, figs, chicory and small fishes, while complaining and crying at Mother’s apron strings.

“Slavery?’ I interjected.

“Oh yes, hosts of young men and women made it to Italy that way on the old East Africa-Axis Connection. It was particularly bad for the young girls. And look out if they were good looking!”

“Then I heard of Canada and a surprisingly liberal outlook toward refugees with humanitarian grounds for appeal. My expensive weekends turned into diligent savings effort for a means of escape. A couple of friends pledged to beef up my English to the subsistence level. And I worked my way across on a ship.”

And here he was in the Waterloo Region, of Mennonite and German flavor, working in a cabinet-making factory and getting ready for Oktoberfest and local beer.

And talking over lunch with a bankrupted and disgraced lawyer-turned-woodworker.

I remember my initial interview with the Plant Manager, a Yugoslavian with a strong accent. He looked at my resume and commented, “I don’t know if this is the right fit for you, but we are in need of healthy,

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teachable help. It seems that we tend to collect from the bottom of the barrel. You can show up next Monday. Bring safety boots.�

Bottom of the barrel, hhmmm? I met many fine people there over the next ten months (1988-89). Hard-working, skilled artisans from many countries. Long hours. Rush jobs. Some missing fingers; some missing smiles; some missing Home. People like Teki.

And Management was disrespectful and double-tongued throughout.

Until the Home Plant near Chicago (Belvidere, Illinois) closed them down under the new Free Trade Deal. And I watched my supervisors lose their superior edge.

Teki I would see in later years with a new shy wife and a bright-eyed baby boy. He didn’t appear to recognize me. I left it at that.

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