This past week, for many IDP communities, has been a sad anniversary: a year has passed by since they fled from their hometown.
From my side such remembrance, today, was marked by the stories narrated by different voices:
Starting from the Ezidi community – originally from Shinghal – now living in shacks next to a 5 star hotel. An intolerable contrast.
For 11 days they wandered around in the Shinghal mountains, without food or water, under the blazing sun, with the fear of encountering Daesh.
“We feel betrayed by our Muslim neighbors. They were the first ones to take advantage of the imminent arrival of Daesh.”
I look at one of our orientation worker. He’s muslim, from Shinghal. He also fled from Daesh. He suffered of the same losts and is now living in a camp.
In my mind, I’m encouraging him to speak up:” Tell them! Tell them that you went through the same sorrows”. But he doesn’t react, he only lowers his sight.
Hostility that’s fueling new cycles of violence.
The broken voice of a colleague whose only priority right now is to keep the family safe, despite the many sacrifices that he has and will face, amongst which the future forced distance from his beloved.
Whole families disintegrated.
The sudden news of a nephew who left in the attempt to reach Europe. Turkey, Greece, Cyprus….and then? The immensity of the sea.
Hoping he won’t be drawn into it.
I listen to all of these stories, always trying to imagine myself in such situations.
The reality is that, I will never know how it feels as I’ve been privileged enough to be born on the favoured part of the world which is now contributing to keep less fortunate people outside its golden walls.
Iani, Fortress Europe.
And even so, every time I get on a car I wonder if it’s the same one with which they fled that damn night, one year ago.
#Iraq #kurdistan #Erbil