Traces of Survival

June 22, 2023

Loud noises make her jump.

So do sudden movements.

When she sees men in uniform,

She crosses the street.

I catch her staring at the walls sometimes.

If she looks away,

She’s back at the refugee camp,

Sitting on a dirt floor and praying

The wind doesn’t toss away the tyres

Holding down the roof of her tent.

We can all tell how much she

Hates being in the car,

How she can’t shower with the door closed,

How she refuses to take the public bus.

She eats as if every meal were her last,

Plucking crumbs from the table,

Wiping smears off the plate with stale bread,

Buying tonnes of food that will last her months –

“Just in case.”

She wears clothes that are plain and loose,

And she may not notice it, but she’ll disappear into

Herself whenever faced with something new,

Playing dumb and distant and confused.

She’d rather not speak

Than have people hear her accent;

She breathes quietly and checks every room

For emergency exits before she enters.

Every move she makes is carefully planned

Out, deliberate and cushioned and

Silent.

I asked her why when we sat in the kitchen

One morning, drinking something warm and bitter

While it rained the stereotypically British way.

Her eyes were unfocused

That day and she didn’t reply, but now I know.

I understand:

The traces of

Survival are more than just the scars

On the knuckles of your hands.

 Amaal Fawzi