No Name for Refugees
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About this ebook
Edison N. Yongai
Edison Nyambeche Yongai was born in Kono District, Sierra Leone. He attended Yengema, Koidu and Magburaka Secondary Schools and did higher studies at Fourah Bay College (University of Sierra Leone) and University of Wollongong, Australia. His other works include the children’s books Check, Come Here! and The Birthday Party; a novel titled Who Killed Mohtta? (all published by Macmillan London Publishers); and The War After the War, published by Tate Publishing in the US. Edison lives in Sydney, Australia, with his wife and their three kids.
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No Name for Refugees - Edison N. Yongai
Copyright © 2014 Edison N. Yongai.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Balboa Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
Balboa Press
A Division of Hay House
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.balboapress.com.au
1 (877) 407-4847
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events and entities is purely entirely coincidental.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-1297-6 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4525-1298-3 (e)
Balboa Press rev. date: 2/25/2014
CONTENTS
Part One
Escape From War
Refugee Life In Guinea-Conakry
Our Flight To Australia
Part Two: Beginning A New Life
Living In Sydney, Australia
School Fight
Making New Friends At School
Relationship With My Best Friend’s Sister
My Father’s Fruitless Search For A Job
Conflict Between My Father And Mother
My Parents Taken To The Police Station
Why My Parents Quarrelled
My Father And Mother Separated By The Court
Life With Our Mother
Is Australia A Racist Country?
Our Lives In Misery
My Mother Tells Me Her Secret
The Start Of My Mother’s Troubles
I Become A Gangsta
Our Lives Turn Upside-Down
My Sister Finds A New Friend
Meeting My Sister’s New Friend
My Sister Invites Her Friend To Our House
My Mother Goes To America
Bad News About My Mother
My Mother Returns To Australia
My Sister Is Pregnant At Thirteen Years
My Mother’s Plan For My Sister
My Mother And Sister Travel To Africa
Arrested By The Police
I Meet An Interesting Police Officer
Meeting With Reverend Father Jilap
This book is specially dedicated to the following wonderful people (in no particular order):
Edward Finnegan, whose wonderful English lessons in Yengema Secondary School have ever been the energy to nurture young minds.
* * *
Hans Lunshof, Protection Officer, UNHCR, Guinea-Conakry (2000-2001) whose hard work and selfless service to refugees can never be forgotten.
* * *
The David Addington family and members of the Refugee Sanctuary, Manly, NSW, Australia, for their invaluable concerns and work for the interest of refugees.
* * *
Barbara Davis, commonly known as Barbie, and partners whose efforts have helped the education of thousands of poor kids in Sierra Leone through an innovative education programme known as the Kanga Schools Project.
* * *
Lesley Ashwood and Jennie Dunlop – whose friendship and warm-heartedness I always cherish.
* * *
Also dedicated to those other numerous generous Australians who extended a helping hand to African refugees since their arrival in the country and those who have rendered assistance to needy people in Africa. I thank you all for your goodness.
* * *
Thanks to my wife Alberta for her very useful suggestions for this story; thanks to my son Sahr and my daughter Sia for their company while I sat at the computer. I cannot forget my third child and second daughter, Kumba Shalom, who was born while this book was in preparation. I will also thank all Sierra Leonean-Australians, especially members of the Sierra Leone Association of Journalists in Exile (Australia), for learning to love one another in their new country. Peace!
* * *
PART ONE
ESCAPE FROM WAR
L iving like a refugee is not always smooth; it always has its ups and downs. Well, everything in life does. But I bet you – you wouldn’t like to be a refugee for a million dollars, woul d you?
Refugees coming from conflict situations have many stories to tell. Sometimes, those stories are difficult to tell because of their horrid nature. Most times when I am tempted to tell my story, I ask myself: Do I begin from where the whole episode started or should I begin somewhere else?
Does my story have a beginning, a middle and an end like most good stories? Well, most refugee stories don’t. The stories are more or less an unusual diary without a date and without the right structure.
It is a simple fact that every life story has the author’s name to it but I can’t give you my name. No. In fact a refugee has no name; the best name for a refugee is Refugee. Period. However, if you are keen on giving a name to the writer of this story, you can call me Aussie Bloke or Afro-Aussie or whatever you will.
You see, I was brought to Australia at the age of eight, exactly seven years now. Now you can guess my age. I am a 15-year-old African boy living in a suburb in Sydney. You would want to know whether I live with my parents or relatives. Well, this is where the story begins. Or is it the end of it? In my 15-year-old mind, the story keeps unfolding. With the arrival of a brutal and destructive 11-year war in my country in Africa in 1991, my story began. Maybe the story wouldn’t have existed if there had been no brutal and destructive civil war in my country. Doesn’t God have a purpose for everything?
I can still vividly remember when the gunmen invaded our town and began to shoot everywhere. It was late in the evening; the sun was already set and the place was getting dark. My father had just come in from accompanying home some neighbours’ kids he had been giving private lessons in various school subjects in our house. He was the head-teacher of one of the biggest primary schools in our town; head-teachers are also known as headmasters. This does not mean that they have the largest heads; they are simply the heads of primary schools.
My father, as he entered, whispered something to my mother. My mother jumped up from her seat on the wooden bench, where she was busy feeding my little sister, as if her bottom was pinched by a needle. My little sister was only three years. My mother, now on her legs, hastily strapped the little girl to her back and ran into their bedroom with my father following her. I did not hear what he said but I knew at once, even though I was only six years old, that something was wrong. I could hear the confused and agitated voices of people outside and faraway. This puzzled my already befuddled little mind.
I followed my parents into the room and I could see my mother, with my little sister now firmly strapped to her back, hurriedly packing one thing and the other into a bag, most times not knowing what to pack in and what to leave out. My father was busy looking at the semi-darkness outside through a crack in the wooden window. I could see he too was worried.
Where are you going?
I kept asking my mother as if I was singing a song. She did not answer but she just kept on packing. She often told me that I was always asking questions and that children who ask many questions always invite trouble into the house.
Then an explosion, which seemed so close, rocked the house and the flame of the kerosene lamp on the wooden table flickered continuously as if it was trying to decide whether to go out or keep on burning. My mother fell on the bed and my father held his head in his hands, perhaps to know whether it had gone into pieces or not. I could see that they were completely swallowed by panic. When the effect of the explosion died down, my mother said with sarcasm in her voice:
"That booming sound you just heard is the answer to your question, young man. I’ve told you several times that children should ask questions but those who insist on getting answers to their questions will never escape from hearing the news about the arrival of Gbini, the fearful mask-devil that devours them," my mother continued as I held on to my father’s legs to keep me on my own legs after the explosion. By now my little sister was whimpering like any frightened little girl of her age. That made my mother’s confusion mount up all the more, by several degrees.
What happened?
I asked, trying to fold myself around my father’s legs.
The rebels have come into our town,
my father whispered in my ear.
Rebels? Are they the masked devils Mama’s talking about?
I asked in my childish ignorance.
The civil war in my country had already taken some years with the destruction of life and property but, as it had not physically reached our area yet, I did not know much about the war or who the rebels were. All I heard was that the rebels were humans who chose to become beasts and live in the forest to fight and kidnap children to be child soldiers and that those children never saw their parents again.
The thought of parting with my father and mother was something I would never imagine. My small world then only centred around them and my little sister, with the exception of the occasional visits of my parents’ relatives, especially my mother’s mother. They always came to us but their visits never lasted; they went back to the village as soon as my parents could provide some money, clothing or other gifts for them to take along.
Are they the mask-devils, the rebels?
I asked my father again, now getting more afraid.
Yes, they are, and they’ve come with their guns and knives and bombs to kill people and kidnap those kids who want to know everything,
my mother continued with her sarcastic response as my father heaved me up onto his chest. What shall we do?
she asked my father, repeating her question several times over as she continued her packing. It was like a child repeatedly singing the refrains of a favourite song. I would have sung along with her if it were a normal situation.
We should leave the town. Many people are going out,
my father suggested.
Where can we go in this darkness and in whose care are we going to leave all our belongings?
Mama, thank God it’s darkness. In this darkness we can go anywhere that our shaking feet and fear and the fight for survival can take us,
my father said with his usual seriousness. As for our property we shall get them when we happen to return to the town.
But there are many people that have to repay my debts,
my mother said as she took my little sister from her back onto her chest. As a petty trader, my mother sold fish and other little things like onions, pepper, soap, salt, etc. in villages around and in Koidu Town itself, sometimes on credit. Out of her trading business she subsidized our livelihood.
Your life and mine and those of our kids are more important than those little amounts of money your customers have to pay you back,
my father tried to reason with her. Let’s leave this town at once as many other people are doing…
Suddenly the door flung open and two men entered with their guns pointed at us. I had never set eyes on what I thought was a real gun before except when my father took me once in a while to the Mohtta Theatre, one of our local cinemas, to watch cowboy films. I was always somehow thrilled at the sight of a gun pointed at a helpless cowboy, which would then eventually explode in his face if he tried to resist the person carrying the gun. The cowboy would then fall and lie still and I and other little kids in the cinema hall would applaud the victorious cowboy, to the annoyance of the adults who wanted quietness. I always wanted to be like that hero and handle a gun to intimidate those who bullied me in school.
When the two gunmen entered with their guns, I thought I was seeing the same cinema thing here in our house and I dived to the floor. Then I realized I was not watching a film. It was time for me to separate reality from fiction, as the gunmen’s actions became more serious and real, showing a terrifying and impending danger. I rose up from the floor and held on to my father’s legs again.
We will kill you and your family this night and burn down your house and your school,
they said and pushed my father to the ground. He fell down, I with him, and his feet over-turned a table that held some dishes and pots. That incident made such a noise that I thought the roof was coming down. My mother gave a shriek and fondled my sister to her chest; she was perhaps trying to show the intruders that she would rather die with her child in her arms.
By now the sounds of gunshots were coming from almost every part of the town and the hysterical voices of terrified people filled the atmosphere. I stood up quickly but my father remained on the ground, afraid to get up and be thrown down again.
We are going to kill you today,
the men shouted and one of them kicked my father in the stomach; he tried to muffle a cry of pain as he doubled up on the floor. Get up, Mr. Headmaster!
they ordered and my father tried to stand up but before he was firmly on his feet, one of the men kicked his feet from under him and he landed flat on his stomach on the hard floor.
Why do you want to kill me and burn the school, an innocent civilian like me?
My father’s voice sounded distant; it sounded different from the usual commanding and authoritative tone of a head-teacher.
Because you are the head-teacher and a bad one too,
said the gunman that kicked my father while he was on the floor. I could see, by the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, that the two gunmen both had popped-out red eyes as if they had squeezed hot pepper into them. Rebels were known to be on drugs and hard liquor. Bad people should not live,
the fellow that kicked my father said.
But I’m not bad,
my father said in a humble voice as though his life rested on that short statement. I’m only a headmaster and I have my two little kids and my wife to care for,
my father pleaded.
I had thought my father was the strongest and the most powerful man in our town, being the head-teacher that everybody in the town respected and feared so much. My immature mind was disturbed to see this powerful headmaster on his knees and pleading, almost in tears, with those little boys of not more than 15 years old who were standing before him and threatening him. How can such a powerful lion suddenly become a lamb?
I kept asking myself. Why can’t my father rush at them and beat them up as he did his students?
In my sudden child-like bravado, I walked over to one of the gunmen and kicked him in the leg. He did not wince as I expected him to. To him, perhaps, my kick was like a rabbit hitting an elephant with a twig. They both just looked at me and laughed as I walked backwards to my father.
Do you believe in heaven – in life after death?
one of the rebels asked. My father nodded yes.
Well, there are better schools in heaven than here,
the gunmen joked and laughed. In heaven, Mister, teachers’ salaries are paid earlier, they have fat allowances because they teach angels and God himself pays them. There in heaven, politicians and civil servants don’t steal teachers’ salaries. Killing you this evening is like giving you a visa to get a better position with a better salary, so you have to be grateful to us.
You’re young boys fit to be learning in school at this age and not holding guns and chasing unarmed people around,
my father said boldly.
Well, that’s why we are here. You expelled me from your school three years ago for misbehaviour. That was your day. Now is my own day,
the gunman who had kicked my father said.
W-what? Me?
my father asked, his words struggling to tumble from his trembling lips. I found it tormenting to watch his panic state.
"My name is Captain Doomsday. My nom de guerre, as people say. Do you remember you ordered a teacher called Mr. Koikoi to give me twelve lashes of the cane that day before you expelled me? the gunman said.
I’ve just shot him dead in his house and set it on fire. If you look through the window, you will see the house burning. Now is your turn." The gunman cocked his gun.
Killing people may be the work that you’re trained to do, but don’t forget that the person who harms his teacher is like the man who spits at the moon – the spittle falls back on him,
my father said, bracing himself for the worst.
Suddenly there were other footsteps in our house. Captain Doomsday, the rebel that was threatening my father, told his friend to go and check who were there. As the other turned to go, Captain Doomsday called him back to attention:
Deal with them if they are enemies,
Captain Doomsday ordered and the other saluted and went out.
We could hear some loud friendly conversations coming from outside as we stood with the gunman’s weapon pointed at us and my father still on his knees. Captain Doomsday was somehow relieved that the conversations outside were signs of his comrades who were moving from house to house to kill and to maim and to loot.
In that instant we heard another explosion, the loudest and the most frightening I had ever heard. It was like all the thunderclaps in the world had become one. The house shook to its foundations and we, together with the gunmen, were all thrown off our feet and we fell over, overturning anything and everything that we touched. The kerosene lamp, the only thing giving light in the house, went out. The whole house was suddenly filled with smoke and dust from the explosion. It seemed that a part of the wall of our house had fallen in. Nobody could see anything and everybody was coughing and sneezing and choking. My father’s hands were clasped around my neck in a strangle-hold and he was stumbling on his knees over mounds of rubble as he tried to find his way out of the house. With that firm masculine grasp around my neck, I became breathless and my eyes rolled. I nearly fainted or maybe I actually fainted.
After what seemed endless minutes, we were on the street and I could hear my mother’s voice behind us whispering my father’s name and asking where we were. There were other people on the streets of the town in the semi-darkness, some groping on their knees for safety as bullets flashed overhead across the sky, while some people ran or walked hastily carrying bundles or boxes on their heads, some with their kids strapped to their backs. It was a beehive of locomotion and confusion and panic, with every bee running helter-skelter. It looked as if the whole caboodle of the townspeople had moved.
My father was now on his feet and had loosened his hold around my neck; he was now carrying me folded to his chest as a kangaroo would carry its young in its pouch in the time of danger. I looked up and admired the fireworks display of red bullets criss-crossing the sky, even though it was dangerous fireworks.
We soon found ourselves in my father’s school compound, which was on the outskirts of the town, quite separated by many metres from the dwelling houses. Frightened people in their hundreds were already gathered there, not knowing where to go or what to do next. Some were calling out to their kids or lost relatives. One could hardly recognise a person in the darkness; all one could