Two women

I’ve spent all day the last two days at the refugee camp. Today I spent time with an elderly woman who has been at the camp for 15 years. We sat together for a couple hours each holding sleeping babies (so that the teen mothers had their hands free to take notes about a presentation on HIV prevention). She was wonderful company, warm, insightful and articulate. While we sat in the breeze, she told me some of her story.

She lost her husband and three sons during the war. They were killed while she watched, hidden nearby with the smallest son. Her remaining son will soon turn 19. Refugee life is the only one he has known.

She makes her living by selling small things- cans of tomato paste, small packets of salt, pieces of ginger root. Every morning she prays that people will come to buy something. If many customers come, she and her son will eat that day. If only a few customers come, she will insist that her son eat, but she will not buy food for herself. If no one comes, neither of them eat. She told me this very matter of fact. She was not complaining. She didn’t ask me for help. She told me about her life because I was curious and I was kind.

We talked about the future. She is not hopeful for Liberia. She said, “There are too many people who want to rule- too many selfish people who don’t care about their fellow countrymen.” She is concerned that the coming elections will cause more violence. Regardless of the outcome, she told me that she is simply too scared to go back. There are too many terrible memories for her there. She fled in fresh grief, with her four-year-old in her arms and walking through the ruins of her country as she went. While she talked, she exuded a deep sense of grief. Not depression, not apathy, not hopelessness, but profound grief.

Our conversation made me wish I had more time to spend with her, perhaps the chance for therapy… some way to extend more care, some way to share the tremendous burden that she has carried alone. When I left for the day, my last full day in Ghana, I gave her all the money I had. With tears in her eyes she said “May God bless you, my daughter.”

I spoke with another woman who was waiting in the camp office. She is leaving tomorrow for resettlement in the US. I asked her which city she was going to and she responded, “I am a refugee. I do not know where I will go or how I will live.” It made me sad to hear such a statement: I am a refugee. Because my nation is ruined, I am at the mercy of other nations. I will go wherever they will take me.. I touched her shoulder and said, “May God guard your journey and may my people greet you warmly when you arrive.” and in my heart I desperately prayed that we will.