A Day in the Life of Sri Lankan Refugees in
India
www.refugees.org/field/postcards/sri_lanka_in_india.htm
For the refugees in camps such as Vembakottai,
the day begins at dawn and ends soon after sunset;
electricity is extremely limited. Families of
5 live in 5'X7' mud-brick huts where the rain
comes through giant holes in the corrugated metal
roofing. They cook on wood fires inside their
huts, fanning at the choking smoke to clear the
air. Huts are dark and very hot as the sun beats
down on their metal roofs.
Nothing is wasted in the refugee camp –
food, wood, water, clothing, and the refugees'
own knowledge are all pooled together for the
good of the camp. The refugees have built all
their own shelters in the camp. They tend their
new chicks, feeding them food scrap waste and
using the manure as fertilizer on the camp's vegetable
gardens. Every day, women push a wooden cart full
of vegetables from their gardens to sell to others.
Clothes are stitched and re-stitched for each
new generation.
Tamils place a high priority on their education.
Anyone with teaching experience works for the
equivalent of $5 per month teaching classes of
70 to 80 students at the camp's school. They teach
children how to read and write in Tamil, preserving
their special culture, and they teach English,
a vestige of Sri Lanka's colonial history. The
supply of books is extremely limited, so the children
must learn how to write small - and very neatly.
Lessons run from 8 am to 2 pm, with a shared mid-day
meal of rice, dhal (curry soup made from split
peas or beans), and sweet tea with milk.
The refugees have barely enough to survive. Some
are able to find work, but many others are physically
unable to labor. In Vembakottai, both men and
women do heavy laboring work – the women
often carry bricks and long bamboo poles for construction
on their heads. Just outside the entrance to the
camp, refugees painstakingly crush a pile of huge
grey boulders into gravel for paving roads.
The refugees in Vembakottai camp struggle to make
their surroundings livable, but you only have
to listen to their stories, and see the longing
in their eyes to realize they are desperate to
get back to their homes and to be reunited with
loved ones. "We long to hear news from home,"
one woman told me, "But the news is usually
not good. I hope one day we will hear of peace."
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A Day in the Life of Jadranka Knezevic, Yugoslavia
www.cdsp.neu.edu/info/students/marko/krnj1.html
The days here at the PIM refugee camp, one of
the worst in the country, don't vary much. This
is one of them:
6:30 a.m. – Time for Jadranka to wake up
and walk Tijana up the narrow, cracked cement
road that leads from the camp to the highway,
where she takes a bus to a school in Belgrade.
''I used to be afraid to send her to school because
I was worried how children would treat her as
a refugee,'' the mother says. ''Not so much anymore.
She is a tough girl.'' Almost everyone at the
camp rises with the sun, some to head into town
on temporary jobs, most simply out of habit. Many
are villagers accustomed to working on their land
at the crack of dawn. But their land is lost,
and there is little work here. Most just stay
in their rooms.
6:50 a.m. – Jadranka isn't good at being
idle. She had been working at a nearby food factory,
similar to the one that employed her in Sarajevo,
but had realized her stamina was slipping. ''I
have been getting sick a lot lately,'' she says.
''There is always food here, but it is not very
good.''
She points to the corner of their room, no bigger
than most folks' closet. A bunk bed takes up most
of the space. There also is a small table in one
corner next to a tiny refrigerator. About six
square feet are left over.
Behind the refrigerator, under a dusty sheet
of plastic wrap, are three layers of eggs and
apples. ''I always try to keep something back
here when I can get it. It is good to be able
to offer something good once in a while.'' Talk
of food reminds her that it's time for breakfast.
7:10 a.m. – She says the first meal varies
daily and that today's – bread served with
a popular meat paste – is better than the
norm. Breakfast is served at the camp's classroom-sized
cafeteria over a three-hour period to ensure there
is enough room and time for all 580 refugees to
eat.
7:30 a.m. – Jadranka goes outside to wash
clothes by hand. Pouring detergent and water into
a large white bowl, she rubs the fabric together
before pinning each garment on a clothesline to
dry in the hot sun. ''I was never really very
good at this kind of thing before the war,'' she
says, seemingly embarrassed by her efficiency.
8:15 a.m. – Jadranka sinks back to reality,
performing the one activity she most despises
but says is her most common: Doing nothing. ''I
cross my legs, smoke a cigarette and look out
the window. This is terrible ... . But I can tell
you I have become good at this, throwing away
the day.'' She turns to watch the clothes dry.
8:45 a.m. – An older woman hanging her
own clothes outside Jadranka's window notices
an American reporter. It's the closest the woman
has been to the enemy. She becomes incensed. ''How
can you people drop your bombs on us?'' she yells,
still continuing her work. ''You are all responsible
for this, how we are, how our children are.''
Jadranka doesn't flinch. With a flick of her cigarette,
she expresses her disdain for such talk. ''It
is one reason I do not like to talk to some refugees
much. It is usually not very nice. They are very
negative. I am also angry, but I prefer to look
forward.''
9:30 a.m. – She gazes around the room for
remnants of her former life, and finds a photo
album. There is one of her and Tijana on vacation
at the beach in 1990, laughing and playing, wearing
clothes she now considers extravagant. A tear
streams down her left cheek. ''What a life we
had ... . I'm 42 and I have to start over again.
I feel like somebody threw me right out of my
shoes. I lived a normal life in Sarajevo. There
is nowhere else I would rather live than in that
city.'' She pauses. ''The way it was, of course.
Not now.''
10:20 a.m. – There is a knock at the door,
unusual only because most camp dwellers simply
enter each other's rooms unannounced. Jadranka
jumps. It's the camp director with a letter from
San Francisco. Jadranka knows immediately it's
from her sister. She opens it to find $ 100 in
cash along with a note. ''My sister wants me to
use the money to buy books for myself.'' She points
to a well-worn Harold Robbins paperback and to
a 3-by-4 shelf holding about 20 novels, most of
them American mysteries. ''I love to read, and
so does Tijana. I can get the books at the library,
or trade the ones I have to other people here.''
She runs outside to show the neighbors her letter.
11 a.m. – She's already got it all figured
out. On a napkin, she writes out how she will
spend the $ 100. She will buy one pair of pants,
one set of pajamas and one shirt each for herself
and Tijana, who also will get new shoes. What
about the books? ''All of this will cost only
$ 40, but I must save the rest for winter. The
books I can keep getting how I am getting them
now. I will manage.'' She says she doesn't need
much to get by. She recalls how much she packed
when fleeing Sarajevo: ''My photo album, two shirts,
two pants, some underwear and three records.''
Records? She grins. ''I just couldn't live without
them.''
Noon – It's lunchtime. Today's special:
Bean soup. Tomorrow's special: Bean soup. The
day after that ... ''It changes everyday,'' Jadranka
says, holding up a bowl and laughing. ''Sometimes
it is not very good and sometimes it is very bad.
Sometimes we get meat in it. Those are good days.''
12:15 p.m. – The happiest moment of the
day is always when Tijana arrives from school.
Tijana, big blue eyes bulging from her smiling
face, wraps her arms around her mother from behind
and eyes the food. ''It is all the same to her,''
Jadranka says, looking down at the bean soup.
''She just loves to eat. She is going through
puberty and takes down twice as much as I do.''
Tijana says nothing while gulping the soup.
1:30 p.m. – Jadranka continues reading
her Harold Robbins novel but lasts only 15 minutes
before falling asleep. Tijana, meanwhile, cuts
out a picture of American pop singer Sheryl Crow,
and pastes it onto the wall next to her bed on
the upper bunk. After placing it neatly next to
a Beverly Hills 90210 sticker, she utters her
first words of the afternoon. ''Crash Test Dummies!''
She leaps down to the floor to adjust the antenna
on the tiny transistor radio. After turning up
the volume on one of her favorite hits, she shyly
explains, ''I like them,'' in English, which she
is learning in school. Tijana takes pride in being
hip. She rattles off names of a few other pop
groups and movie stars. Although she hasn't seen
many films and owns no cassette tapes, she collects
magazines that other students no longer want.
And she listens to the radio with a precise ear.
''I want to live in America,'' she says. ''They
have everything.'' Before long, Tijana, too, dozes
off for her afternoon nap.
4 p.m. – Tijana is outside playing with
other children at the side of one of the 12 long,
single-floor buildings that make up this unsightly
compound. Most children play by jumping on each
other or by simply running around. Tijana seldom
gets involved much anymore. ''She thinks she is
getting to be too grown-up,'' her mother moans.
''It is tough for her when the children are always
sick and some even die here. I am afraid all of
this will leave a permanent mark on her, a scar
that will never heal.''
6 p.m. – Dinner is the biggest meal of
the day, something uncommon in this country. Tonight,
it is spaghetti without tomato sauce – ''or
something like that,'' Jadranka says, eying the
pasta quizically.
7 p.m. – Tijana studies while her mother
prepares for a rare evening out. She and a few
friends have decided to walk to a nearby cafe.
It will cost them less than 20 cents to buy something
to drink and enjoy some company in a slightly
more pleasant setting. Things turn sour, however,
as they often do in these gatherings.
One old Serbian woman begins screeching about
the recent NATO bombings over Bosnia. Everyone
chimes in simultaneously, except Jadranka, who
turns to explain: ''How can you blame them for
their anger? Each of these people has someone
there right now, as do I with my brother. My mother
and sister are still trapped in a Muslim section
of Sarajevo.''
9 p.m. – Another day is over, and the future
is no clearer for Jadranka and Tijana Knezevic.
There is talk the camp will be moving some refugees
to other parts of Yugoslavia in the next month
or two. That would mean yet another school for
Tijana, another uprooting for both. Before the
lights go out, Jadranka runs her hand gently through
Tijana's long, brown hair. ''This is very difficult
for her. She is so smart and remembers everything.
That frightens me more than anything.''
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