Nine weeks spent in a refugee camp in Hungary. Nine weeks worth of memories and lessons learnt. Coming from the so-called conservative nation of Singapore, where life has always been set for me, I’ve never really contemplated the concept of liberty. If life was easy, life was good.
Then I meet the refugees, except, they’re people, as real as anyone can be. They’re not caricatures, poor portraits of has-beens. They’re people, with stories to tell, people like me. And they teach me, even if we all don’t speak the same language.
We talk about religion. The Afghan bachelor tells me, “You kaput, you go,...” before trailing off and stomping on the ground. It takes me awhile to understand this, before I realise, "Oh. He means hell." I expect to feel indignance, maybe fury, but I don’t. We both acknowledge truth isn’t always universal, and move on. The Afghan mother shows me her purse of jewellery, amongst them a pendent of Mother Mary and a cross. I’m bewildered. “You, Catholic?” “No. Muslim,” she answers, and strokes the cross, “This, beautiful.”
We talk about life. My Hungarian boss loves life, and enthrals us with her tales of cross-country hitchhiking. She tells us her favourite quote from her mother, “Positive people attract positive things.” The Georgian sailor tells us unassuming tales of living from jail to jail, his life of “problem, problem, problem”. But he tells us, he’s never worked a day in his life, and is waiting to sail the world. He advises us in a curious, lilting accent, “Do not be afraid of life.”
We talk about love. The Somali tells us “Love is you feel the person near, even before you see her.” We tell him, “We do not know what love is.” The Georgian sailor adds, “You, baby.”
We learn about family. The Afghan couple who gives us extra tins of food, and makes us chai everyday. The Kosova girls who dance with us. The Afghan child who turns to me while we’re hunting for ladybugs, and tells me, “You, sister.”
We learn, to not judge.
