I came to know all his friends and their favorite foods and his carefree life there. He was the first one who made me aware of mango buds that filled up the air with a scent like no other. He was
named after the mango buds, Mukul. Mukul played the flute to herd his cattle. The bamboo flute was a gift his father had bought him. I told him about orchestra where I played violin. My interest was piqued and I pressed him to play the flute. After a lot of prodding, he agreed to overcome his coyness. The melody that was created by this bamboo instrument still resonates in my heart. A common melody that cowherds play passed on from generation to generations made a deep indentation on my youthful soul. But Mukul was too modest to accept my accolades. He told me he would introduce me to some of his friends who lived in the refugee camps. They knew a lot more melodies and one of them surpassed everyone’s expectations in his village. Cows would stop
grazing and listen to Mukul’s friend play. But he wasn’t sure if his friend still has his flute or he
had left it with everything else in his village in Bangladesh. They all harbored the idea that they
would be back soon and once again go on with their life as usual. I immediately pressed my grandma for permission to go the refugee camp and meet this virtuoso. Even my softhearted grandma, who never denied me any favors, wouldn’t relent. She said it was too dangerous a place for children to wander. I couldn’t understand why she would say that when many of
Mukul’s friends and cousins lived there. If it wasn’t dangerous for them, I could spend some time
there too and make some new friends. My interest about Bangladeshi refugee kids took me to the UNHCR website. I started
reading about refugees and about who these people were. What was the reason that benevolent
people like my grandma took precaution when approaching them? I didn’t have to look further. I learnt about the conditions of these children in refugee camps. As of 2014, the world has harbored thousands of refugees from various nations. Many of these immigrants are young children without parents. Although refugees receive public assistance in the form of food, shelter and education, their citizenship status is still uncertain. Child migration is happening today due to poverty and crimes in neighboring countries. Of the entire refugee population, around 20% are children that came without parents. Due to their incredible resilience, it is sometimes difficult to understand their struggles. Most of these children are born in extremely poor families and are raised without basic education. These children walk long distances without their parents or lose their parents along the journey as they try to reach their destination. When they arrive, they are put in refugee camps with minimal wages and without any facilities for education, safety or clean drinking water. Without a parent, a child is extremely vulnerable. They can be kidnapped, robbed, or harmed. Luckily, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, UNHCR was created for this. Receiving funds from a number of countries, they manage refugee camps, register new refugees and provide refugees with work permits, visas and government services. However, the number of refugees has been increasing over the years and isslowly starting to put a strain on UNHCR resources. On top of that, local populations are being alienated by the sudden
influx of people which could threaten their jobs, houses and living style. Learning this, I was
relieved that Mukul lived with my grandma. Caught in this cauldron of events, many Mukuls cannot scream for assistance. They have
talents, but there is no orchestra to showcase their talent. Mukul is only beginning to learn his
alphabet. His priorities before this were to survive. He was foraging for food while he should have been in school. His mother is a woman of great dignity. Every single day she sees to it that my grandma’s household runs like machinery. My biggest struggle so far was to keep my grades and not to get into trouble in school. I have been granted the important things in life food, clothing, safe shelter and schools to nurture me by a benevolent hand of Divinity. But many Mukuls don’t have even the basic amenities of life like food, safety and dignity. Like the melodies they carry in their memories, they also carry the tragedies they faced. I just don’t want them to fade away and get lost forever from my memory. Their psyche is tarnished and the remnants are only the darkest abyss of their eyes. Mukul is going to be taken care of. My grandma will take care of them. They have hope with her. They have hope with me. Mukul is a bud that has already mesmerized me with his mango blossom scent. His prowess and desire to educate himself will ultimately bring his salvation. But what is to become of the other Mukuls or buds in these refugee camps? We cannot let them perish in vain. They can serve our society like ripened mangoes have done for our palates. We need to give them a congenial surrounding to
prevent premature decay or destruction. Let’s raise our voice in unison. Let’s witness our salvation in their salvation. Let’s toast their resilience and bravery to live.
Eyes of the Abyss, Mukul. Cont.