The No.1 Refugee
As the refugees approached through the thick forest, we hurried down the ridge to meet them. Suddenly they stopped. They thought my cameraman, dressed in a blue jacket, was a border guard. Others suspected we worked for the Austrian government. “Alsalamu Alaikum. I am an Al Jazeera correspondent,” I told them, trying to break the ice. Still doubtful, they smiled with caution. I thought to myself that they were not like the Syrians I had known for decades. As I got closer, I realised that was because they weren’t Syrian. “We don’t speak Arabic; we are from Afghanistan,” one of them explained. I tried to communicate with them in English, but failed as none of them spoke the language. Then, from deep in the crowd, somebody shouted: “Come here, we are Syrians and there are also some Iraqis here.” We moved through the group as the cameraman recorded their emotions and facial expressions. There were women, children and elderly; their exhaustion and pain etched on their faces. Their worn-out shoes suggested they had walked thousands of miles.
“Yes, on foot,” said one. “We are living like wolves; sleep in the cold woods and chased by every human, the authorities and highwaymen alike. But we are finally here,” he added. At that point, I understood that the stories of every one of those refugees could not be recorded even on thousands of pages or camera tapes. Each of them had defied logic and broken stereotypes. I came to believe that those who had managed to flee their homes, risking their lives and crossing Europe’s fortified gates were capable of working miracles in any place they might dwell.
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