Run with the Wind
I am crammed in the van again . I cannot remember the last time I saw my father or my brother . Only my mum , and hundreds of other refugees that were willing to give all they had for a chance . The day father and brother disappeared , mother cried all day , and she would not tell me what was wrong . It is dark , I cannot breathe . I cannot breathe . I cannot breathe . It is so disorientating , being shaken back and forth upon rugged roads . We are a toy in the hands of a toddler . I do not know the next time I might bathe in sunlight or taste the moon , or run with the wind . How I miss that , running with the wind .
This concrete prison is my new home . I have a bed that is hard and feels like bone , and it is traced with skeletal springs and a musty blanket that is more holes than blanket , but I also have a door . It towers over me as if it is a giant and I am a mouse . That is where they come from . The men . They speak a foreign tongue . They wear strange white coats . Sometimes they bring others that do not wear the coats , they always shake their heads , as if I am an object that they do not want to buy . I can feel their judging eyes . They stare at me . Judging . Always judging . I stare back . As if I will ward them away with my fiery eyes , that blaze , with my pain and anger and anguish . Like the blaze that set my city alight , set my family on a perilous path , and set me into this ... place .
Every day is the same . They give me strange food . It does not have the rich flavour or spice that food used to have back in Kobanî . It is bland , almost blander than my life here in this cage . The cage that wrecks my life .
5