MAHMOUD
It is quite scary for an 8-year-old to feel lonely. Most of the 8-year-olds I know now did not know loneliness at such an age.
I met a small boy at the Ulus refugee center one night and was instantly compelled to write a monologue about him. While I never got his name, his innocence and youth are a testament to the struggles that young refugee children go through every day. This piece explores what the boy’s adjustment to a new culture might be like and imagines his interactions with other children his own age who do not understand what he has been through. Like many refugee children, my character is forced to provide for his family, even at the age of 8 years old.
i used to sleep on the ground
the cold
hard
musty
dusty
but familiar ground.
i now sleep under two sheets, with my socks on and my shirt clutching at my skin and a fluffy pillow for my little head.
i am young on the outside, but i am very very old on the inside.
i am now 13 but this story concerns my year spent as an 8-year-old.
I am Syrian
and i announce that with love and pride and a deep respect for the place that i was born.
my family fled to Egypt
and i was 8.
i remember it vividly and bitterly.
the orange houses and orange sand.
i clutched the one book i owned to my chest, never once letting it out of my reach.
that book was my safety, my knowledge.
that book was mine. as simple as that but so complex for an 8-year-old.
i remember hearing them laugh
the other kids.
the kids that could go to school, that knew their mother, that could smile with their friends because they had friends.
i could not do those things.
i could not go to school.
i did not have friends.
my mother died when i was 5.
i remember wanting to go and play with them so badly
to kick up the sand with the heels of my shoes
to run and to scream
and to be free.
so one day i tried.
i opened my front door and went down the stairs, excitement rushing through me because i could now have friends and they could take me to their school and i could learn to read the book i had kept from our journey.
i ran out to meet them, as fast as i could.
and suddenly
i tripped.
my knees touched the ground first
then my hands
then my forehead.
laughter.
i heard them laugh, as i realized what had happened.
they called me things, they made me feel as if my heritage, my blood, my place on this earth was not as good as theirs.
i did not belong.
i did not belong here.
i lifted myself up with scraped knees and a scraped forehead and bloody palms and tears filled my eyes.
they laughed and they shouted.
one of them punched my face, the area around my eye was black the next day.
black.
as dark as their hearts
as painful as my memory
as strong as my wish for friends and the knowledge of reading.
i stumbled home
dread
disappointment
loneliness.
it is quite scary for an 8-year-old to feel lonely. most of the 8-year-olds i know now did not know loneliness at such an age.
but i did.
like i said, i am old inside.
i came home to my father and helped him distribute the bread, as we do every single day.
he did not have to ask about my scrapes or my eye, this happened to many of us living here.
at least with my father i could work and be useful and help something.
i felt like the man of the house when i delivered bread.
but i would really like friends. and i would like to read. i remember that most. my want for the simple things that many have, but never stop to appreciate.