The Life of a Refugee--Ethan

The baby cries. It’s hungry. Again. My wife looks over with that look. The look that says,
“Where do we go? What do we do? What do we eat?” These are the questions that constantly plague our days now. We decide to settle down on a street corner. Musty smell of cigarette smoke. The concrete is wet. Nothing new to us now. Throngs of people pass us. I dare look up to meet a gaze. Rejection. I make another silent plea for help. I’m met with coldness. On they go. Off to their churches to learn again how to “do a good deed”. Off to their projects to get in their act of service for the week. On they go, rushing this way and that way. Jobs. Meetings. Appointments. They never stop. On they go, never looking down to see us. To see who we are and where we’ve come from. To see not only our eyes, but what’s behind them. I snap back to reality as my baby screams louder. I look at her, and then to the throngs passing by. Nothing. No glance, no look of pity. I grab her from my wife’s trembling hands. I hold her tight. The only thing I feel that I can hold onto anymore. I shift my baby onto my side, and then grab my wife’s hands. I grip tight and steady her. She looks at me, tears in her eyes. Again. I’m strong. I will not cry, neither will I break. For if I do, my wife breaks with me.
This is my life. The life of a refugee. 

I wake up. My head hurts. My body aches. I blink to adjust my eyes. I can see lights in the darkness. There are much less people now. A few stragglers here and there, but nothing compared to the masses last night, just a few hours ago. I look down. My wife is cradling my baby, both asleep. She must have grabbed her before dozing off. I check the surroundings. Assured that all is calm for the moment, I lay my head down on the cold, hard ground. Just for a moment...

I’m awake. Something’s wrong. How long was I out? I blink rapidly. The sun’s out. I can feel it before I see it. I focus on my wife. She’s nervously looking up. My baby is silent. I look up. There’s a man a few feet away. He steps closer, and he’s saying something, but I don’t understand. He reaches into his coat pocket. I recoil slightly and begin to pull my family close. I expect a knife. Or maybe a gun. In those few seconds, my mind flashes to home. True home. The home that is even now being torn apart by anger and cruelty. In the midst of these thoughts, the intruder finds what he’s been searching for in his pocket. In a glance, I see the bright colors of Euros clasped in his outstretched hand. I look up into his face. No rejection. No coldness. Instead, I see kindness. I see the face of one who loves. My eyes fill with tears. I let out a choked thank you, and take the money. He doesn’t seem to understand my words, but I know he can see my face. He smiles and then walks away. Throngs of people now pass again. They don’t see him. No one notices. But we notice him and we see him. My heart swells. With love? Yes. But what’s this other feeling? Peace? No, my life is just as hectic as before. Then what is it? I struggle to find the word for this feeling. It’s familiar, yet I realize I haven’t felt this in a long time. Then I look at my wife. She’s smiling, cradling my still very new daughter in her hands. It’s then that I realize what this feeling is. 

Hope.