Valerie Walawender, 2021

I remember their impassioned plea, “Tell our story!”

I was at the Center for Immigrants and Refugees in Utica, NY, to attend a New York Folklore Society gathering that was to take place the next day.

Though I was always interested in social issues, the plight of refugees had not been a priority for me. Issues such as child abuse, poverty, and racism seemed more immediate and pressing for my attention.  However, this opportunity to attend a refugee center peeked my curiosity. I made my travel arrangements so that I would arrive a day early to have an opportunity to visit the center.

I introduced myself at the desk and asked if there was anyone I could speak with about the center. The director called out to two lovely, impeccably groomed young Asian women and asked them to show me around.

I introduced myself and learned that my guides’ names were Rebecca and Green. They were very polite, soft spoken, and kind as they led me up a set of stairs. They opened a door on the left of the long, dark hallway. The room was filled with computers. A few adults intently typed away. Green said, “This is where the people learn to speak and write English.” I felt a little shy, but asked, “Where are the people from who use your services.” Rebecca answered, “They come from all over the world. Bosnia, Iraq, Nepal, Somalia, Sudan, Burma . . .”

I asked, “Where are you from?”

“We are from Burma, now called Myanmar,” they both answered almost simultaneously.

I admitted that I really didn’t know anything about Burma. We walked down the hall a bit more. I noticed drawings, simple renderings in crayon and colored pencils, hung on the walls. I asked if children drew the pictures.

Rebecca and Green said “No, these are done by adults, the people who are part of our programs.”

Rebecca and Green paused at one of the drawings. Green said, “I did not do this drawing, but it shows where we grew up.”

I looked more closely at the image. It depicted some simple thatched roof huts on stilts, surrounded by palm trees. Lines crossed with x’s appeared around the perimeter of the scene. I asked, “Is that supposed to be barbed wire?”

Green answered, “Yes. This picture shows the refugee camp in Thailand that our village was moved to.”

My head tilted slightly and eyes squinted as I tried to understand, “Why? Why was your village moved?”

“Our people were being killed in the Genocide. The people in power in Burma hate our people. My father and grandparents and brother were all murdered.”

“Oh my God! I am so sorry. How old were you were brought to the refugee camp in Thailand?”

“I was born there. My mother came there when she was pregnant. I never saw anything outside the barbed wire fence my whole life. The conditions at the camp were terrible. The water was dirty. The place was dirty and crowded. We never had enough food. There were guards there that kept us inside.  My mother was so sad. She cried all the time for my brother and father, for her parents, and for me.”

I replied, “That is so awful! When did you come here?”

“Two years ago. My village was moved here. My mother and I came when I was sixteen.  When I came here I went to school at the refugee center and learned English. I had never been outside the refugee camp before I came here.”

“So you work here at the center now?” I asked.

“No. Rebecca and I are now in college and we have jobs at the casino, but we come here to the center to volunteer.”

I was so moved by their story, I inquired whether they knew of a place I could get some dinner, and that I would like to take them to dinner. They asked if I would like to get some traditional Burmese food. I was so pleased, and said yes.

There was not much more to see at the refugee center, so we each got into our respective cars. I followed Green and Rebecca in their vehicle down a few streets and turns and we arrived at a restaurant. The girls conversed with the proprietor in their own language and ordered for me. I do not remember the meal. It was some kind of vegetable noodle soup, but when I went to pay, I discovered that Green and Rebecca had already paid for our meals. Knowing that they had so little, I was overcome with gratitude and surprise. I thanked them.

They asked if I would like to see some Burmese stores. They took me to a clothing shop. In the traditional way, we left our shoes at the door and donned slippers to enter. When I tried to purchase a traditional Burmese shirt, again they surprised me by having paid before I had a chance.  I could not get over their kindness to a stranger.  I asked if there was a grocery story with traditional foods.  I asked for their recommendations for things I could prepare – and they took a handful of items and spices off the shelf.  I mentioned again how shocked I was to learn of the genocide in their country, and asked if the man behind the counter was also a refugee from Burma. They said yes, that their whole village had been relocated to Utica. “We love Utica!” Green exclaimed.

I had attended Mohawk Valley Community College in Utica right out of high school. Having not been there for the past thirty years, I was somewhat shocked to see how run-down and dilapidated the small city had become in the interim, and so, was surprised at the gratitude and heartfelt appreciation that Green and Rebecca expressed for this tiny forgotten metropolis.

It was beginning to dawn on me how much living in America – living in Utica, meant to these two lovely girls. I told them that I knew many people through a program I ran in my own community. I told Green and Rebecca that I would tell people about Burma and Thailand and the refugee center.

The girls became excited. Rebecca started scrolling on her phone and showed me some images.

“If you are interested, you can look it up on the internet. These are photos of what is happening there in Burma. It is still happening today.” The photos she showed me were horrific. Unspeakable slaughter and mayhem. Tears instantly welled up in my eyes and I looked into the impassioned faces of Rebecca and Green. They said, “Tell our story!”

We parted. I hoped I would see them the next day at the NY Folklore Society conference, but they could not attend, as they need to go to their jobs at the casino. At the NY Folklore event at the Refugee Center,  I was treated to amazing demonstrations and displays of textile arts. Traditional artisans from Iran, Bosnia, Somalia, and Sudan demonstrated exquisite weaving on handmade looms, embroidering techniques, and batik dyeing methods. I met men and women who continued to create beautiful things despite unspeakable trauma. They endured and carried their traditions and hope across the ocean and through appalling circumstances, to create a new life, a new reality for themselves and their children.

I began to reflect on how Green and Rebecca’s stories paralleled the stories about children I knew or encountered across my own life – and how the borders across the world kept us from understanding the suffering of humankind, and children, and what we are compelled to do in response.