276 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
276 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
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Underground eXperts United
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Presents...
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[ Charlie's Exile Blues ] [ By Simon Moleke-Njie ]
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____________________________________________________________________
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____________________________________________________________________
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CHARLIE'S EXILE BLUES
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Simon Mol
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Suspended in mid-air and invisible, I followed a game of death and survival
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played out in the periphery of a humid and dense African jungle.
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Grey gunship helicopters hovering under the cover of darkness, tracked
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down faint glows of light far below that betrayed where their quarries were
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hiding. Though they would take painstaking measures to cover their hideout
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with branches and leaves, still, rays often penetrated the thick grooves to
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leak out their where about.
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This would almost immediately attract a fresh spray of bullets from
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hovering helicopters, prompting casualties and leaving tracks of
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gore-covered fields, without a single soul to mourn or bury its dead.
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The valleys and mountains echoed protests to no avail.
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The ruthless man-hunters, safe in the air on-board metal-hawks of death,
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took sadistic pleasure in closing in always when the haunted thought they
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were safe. Armed only with knives, cutlasses and batons, they were mincemeat
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for the death-squad.
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A courageous one however, decided to dare the devil. Somehow, he
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penetrated the fortress of the bloodthirsty-squad, deep in the forest,
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sneaking into their office, with his little boy. Galvanised by his quest for
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justice, he cornered the commanding officer who was sitting behind his desk
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and managed to snatch his gun from his drawer, shooting him in the head at
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point-blank range.
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Before dying, the officer pressed the alarm to seal all entrances. But
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not fast enough for the avenger who just managed in time to speed out, jump
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the fence and take to the jungle with his little boy who had only a shirt
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on. Knowing the forest better than the ferocious man-hunters, he managed to
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gain a comfortable lead in an opposite direction.
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Pent up with frustration, his little boy started to cry. He had witnessed
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death, and his spirit rebelled against the flow of blood... even if it was
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that of the enemy.
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As they increased steps, the child became more furious. He asked his dad
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to take off his shirt, which his dad did, and then the child blatantly
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refused to continue the journey of escaping.
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He had had enough.
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His cry became louder, and in a final outburst of frustration, he told
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his dad to go away and leave him alone!
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He meant it.
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His father, seeing his determination and haunted by the fact that the
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man-hunters could not be outwitted for long, rebelled against all paternal
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sentiments and left the child to his fate. The five-year old took to the
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opposite direction... crying still, though he felt better for an
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inexplicable reason. On his own, he headed for the unknown....
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As I return from the trip in the inner world, I felt moved by the brave
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little boy... on his way to becoming a refugee, i.e., if he survived the
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jungle. Contemplating the odds against him while still lying in bed, gazing
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at the ceiling... I found myself weaving words for a poem dedicated to him:
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CRY OF COUNTER-FURY
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What is survival without defiance?
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It is the only truth in a game that rules out meekness
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as an unwarranted sacrifice.
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For the cockroach, ending up in the belly of a cock
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isn't defeat at all!... it is one of the rules too,
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which could be summed in a portrait
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on the wall of those who carry the game furiously further.
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Victory for the cockroach is-
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'How long its 'will' to survive lasted?',
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before being crushed by the cock.
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This is its only chance, if it hopes to even with the cock someday.
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If that child in my dream could cast off his shirt in the jungle,
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preferring to meander in his pants, alone, telling his dad defiantly
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'go to hell!'
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above all, arresting the exploits of ambitious mosquitoes with a
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wild cry of counter-fury... he has truly overcome,
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even if he ends up in the belly of a beast.
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Certainly, his sole weapon; 'that last cry of counter-fury',
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shall blind the beast to the hunter's bullet too... someday.
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It might even fool it into a dragnet, rob it of its instincts and
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curse it to spend the rest of its days in torturing meekness
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behind cages in a zoo.
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Worst still, the child's 'last cry of counter-fury'
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might invoke the wrath of Nature to descend
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in the belly of the beast; for instance...
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as 'the mad-cow disease'.
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The above piece is an extract from my dream diary, "The Colour of My
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Dreams." It is not a digression from the context of this story. The dream
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depicts the genesis of exile, and how millions are left homeless to become
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refugees.
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This too is how some find their way to Poland in their bid of finding a
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safe-haven.
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Of course there are different categories of refugees. There are political
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refugees, war refugees, religious refugees, and the least and most
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troublesome on the list is economic refugees. The last ones have no place
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under the refugee protection law, and as quickly as possible as soon as they
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are identified, they are whisked back to their countries with the very next
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available flight.
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I made a recent discovery to add to the list! This one is a novel
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dimension that deserves serious consideration. A professor-friend told me of
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his brother (an artist), who went for a painting exhibition in Sweden and
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never returned. In the course of the exhibition he became too Romeo, fell in
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love and got married in record time.
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When interviewed and asked if he considered himself to be a political
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refugee, his answer, artistically given with a fine blend of sincerity,
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colour and humour, made one journalist to fall over, trampling his camera:
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"I am an erotical refugee," he said.
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For Cameroonian born Ntiege Charles who has applied for asylum in Poland,
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the experience of being a refugee has tested his patience with ruthless
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suspense, which is still ongoing.
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I knew Charlie back in the town of Buea, at the foot of mount Cameroon.
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We played soccer together and I often put the ball between his giant legs.
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We would later drive to the coastal town of Victoria to take a swim in the
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Atlantic Ocean, eating 'sawyer' on our way.
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Life separated us.
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Almost a decade later, I had been living at the refugee centre of Debak
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for over two weeks when I came across Charlie. He didn't recognise me. I
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fished him out.
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Charlie is a man-mountain of a man... over 1/87m, with a built like a
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boxer. His most outstanding feature is his voice, reminiscent of a military
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officer barking a command. He is black... there is no difference between him
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and night. His shoe size is 46, and his palms are as big as Polish pancakes.
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I noticed that Charlie's eyes had become red. Not out of alcohol, but
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because of what he has seen... which is quite a lot!
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Those who don't know him, get the impression that he is rude, or is a
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bully. But no! Behind this mask, lurks a 'heart', in the African sense, that
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feels.
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Charlie is one of the most jovial persons I ever met... and the most
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reliable in terms of community loyalty. Today he is the longest resident of
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Debak, living there now for over three years! Many have come and left,
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leaving him behind.
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I met him too and left him there. He is part of the identity of the place
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now.
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When asked, "Charlie why are you wasting your time in Poland? Why don't
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you cross to the west?"
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His answer is always the same, "Do what there? 'I have planted a coconut
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tree here'... I love Poland," he would reply with a Cameroonian metaphor,
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describing someone who has no intention of leaving a place.
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Charlie has a penchant for collecting used items. In his room are large
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cartoons full of mechanical paraphernalia... nuts, bolts, screws, pins,
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needles, spooks, nails, valves, pliers, hammers, diodes, knobs, you name it,
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Charlie's got it!
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He also has a large bottle full of all shapes and sizes of coat, shirt
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and trousers buttons.
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"Why are you keeping these rubbish?" I asked him.
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"Call it rubbish now... someday you will come here when in need," came
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his response. And true to his words, I rushed through his cartoons once,
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looking for a button, when a refugee kid I was playing with swallowed one of
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my coat buttons!
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Most refugees at Debak would come knocking at his door for technical
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assistance, and he is always open to help. Charlie single-handedly painted
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an entire block in Debak, and led a construction of a Children's Park for
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refugee kids.
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When engrossed in a task, a cigarette could be seen dangling dangerously
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at the right corner of his dark lips, with smoke forming a spiral round his
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black broad face. Sometimes the cigarette would burn itself out, roasting
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his lips a little, when he is over concentrated.
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From October 1999 to February 2001, Charlie who is a trained civil
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engineer, worked as a volunteer at the "Stowarzyszenie Rodzico'w i
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Przyjaciok Dziece Niewidomych i S3abowidz1cych"; a home for handicapped
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children in Warsaw. He worked with a Somali refugee, who got his status a
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few months later, and left, leaving Charlie to carry on alone.
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Charlie became attached to the Children's home; "I felt so attached to
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the place... seeing some of the handicapped children at play gave me peace
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of mind... it made me to forget my problems," he told me.
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"This is fantastic cooking!" exclaimed one of the guests who came for the
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Polish/African mini summit organised by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and
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presided over by the honourable minister on June 21, 2000, at Folksal
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street. Charlie had offered a hand, suggesting one of his favourite dishes,
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potopoto-potato and egusi soup, cooked the African way. People ate, praised
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him and left, forgetting him.
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Today Charlie has joined the ranks of those selling at the stadium free
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market in a bid to raise money: "If I should get a positive decision, my
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next plan is to wed immediately. I have to prepare for this," he told me
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once.
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It's difficult to catch Charlie in town during weekends. He is always off
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to Katowitce where the woman of his dream, Marta lives with her parents.
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"Men! how come? there are many girls in Warsaw, yet your heart settled in
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far-off Katowice," I asked.
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"My brother, leave me alone... woman palaver na wa," he heaved.
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Last November, I accompanied him to Banaha, where he wanted to buy a
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present for Marta... a 22-carrat gold-plated lady's ring. He hadn't enough
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money then, but advanced 20%, promising to pay the rest at the end of the
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month. It was his Xmas present to her... which sealed their promise to
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become husband and wife should things work well for him. Charlie is working
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hard, and Marta is praying for him.
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Should he get his papers, he will join the ranks of those who are pending
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the implementation of the "Integration Programme", a spiralling paper-
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project, which at this point leaves refugees to fend for themselves. Many
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refugees who got the status, had to turn to the 'Polish Humanitarian Action'
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for assistance. Lucky ones got accommodation, and an elementary Polish
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Language Course scholarship. But the list of applicants is growing
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alarmingly, and even the fortunate few are forced to face cuts in the little
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help they get.
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"I was starving," a Chechen refugee was telling me, "I called a friend
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who lives across town and he invited me over for dinner. But I had a second
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problem... no money to buy a bus ticket. But the pangs of hunger pushed me
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to take a risk. I got in a bus without any ticket. A few stops away the
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ticket controller caught up with me. He made me descend, asking for my
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address to write a default, which would mean paying a penalty of 120 zlotis.
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I gave him the address of the department that is responsible for the
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integration program... Rakowieska 21."
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"And what did he do?" I asked.
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"What could he do? He looked at me for long, concluded that I was mad,
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and simply walked away!" he said, biting his words.
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For others, the problem is the possibility of studying the host language:
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"When you go into an office and express yourself in Polish, people
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respect you. Believe me, I am making history by studying Polish!" Mr. Aghmed
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told me once after our Polish classes.
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The atmosphere often generated in the classroom, left our teachers,
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Renata and Anna, satisfied. It was an occasion we looked up to daily,
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because of the stress-releasing atmosphere. Mr. Aghmed would sometimes bring
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a specially prepared dish of Pakistani cousin expertly cooked by his wife,
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for the class to share: "To jest bardzo ostre, na prawda, i jest zdrowy," he
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would say. We would eat, laugh and chart informally. The teacher-student
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relationship would pale into insignificance, making learning even more
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appealing.
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Unfortunately the course was brutally terminated because of rising cost,
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leaving Mr. Aghmed's aspiration precariously dangling in mid-air. That was a
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few weeks ago.
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Talk of luck!
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Today is April 20, 2001. It is 12:25 p.m. now. I had just finished the
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above paragraph, when my phone rang. It was a call from Mr. Andrzej
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Czajkowski of the Polish Humanitarian Action.
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He had news for me: "If you want to continue studying Polish, you can
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join a group at IKO, without paying," he said.
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"Why free?" I asked. It's difficult getting things for free so I had to
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be sure. "We asked them for help," he replied. I guess I should end the
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story here, hoping that perhaps, I would meet Mr. Aghmed again... and that
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Charlie too... would run into some luck!
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STOP PRESS!
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Take a message to our folks- fast forward, southward moving clouds...
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not of words.
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Descend as dew...
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dissolve and fertilise the land,
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merge with the village spring.
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As they eat and drink
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to quench their hunger and thirst,
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invade their thoughts and dreams...
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with glimpses of what we going through in exile!
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(Poem inspired by the back street of Praga....
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Warsaw, April 12, 2001; 2:00 a.m.)
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---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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uXu #580 Underground eXperts United 2001 uXu #580
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The uXu FAQ - http://www.uXu.org/faq.htm
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