Peshawar Diary: School for Refugees

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On Thursday, a deafening boom wakes me at 4:30 am. Thunder. My day begins by going through the seemingly endless series of emails that arrived during the night. I go to the office earlier than usual.

An old boss once told me that there are two ways to manage an office: one is from behind your desk and the other is by walking around the office. Maintaining staff morale is critical, especially during emergencies, so I walk around. My walks also extend to program sites, to be with staff working directly with refugees. At mid-morning I make arrangements to visit a nearby elementary and high school, one of the many that the International Rescue Committee supports in Peshawar and outlying villages. Children make up more that half of any refugee population; our education program reaches over 25,000 Afghan students, nearly 70% of them girls. Teaching skills and building confidence is a needed remedy in helping to rebuild Afghanistan.

IRC teachers recently told me that they are witnessing a 15 percent increase in the number of students since September 11th. The UN estimates over 110,000 new arrivals ("invisibles") have crossed the closed border into Pakistan since the U.S. bombing began. The Afghans who can afford it are fleeing the prolonged bombing raids. I walk around the schoolyard and then am ushered into a classroom to meet with some 30 refugee children, all girls 9 to 13 years old. Some of the younger, the so-called "invisibles", begin to become more visible to me. They begin telling their stories to me through my translator. Hands are always waving. They all want their turn to speak. Nobody is shy.

Unique children. Unique names: Hamasa, Sweeta, Mursal, Sadia, Mina, Deewa, Chida, Farida, Tamana, Mahbooba, Sahar, Lawa, Fariha, Hishma, Khatera, Brishna, Zuhra... I observe their behavior and listen: My father is left behind…My mother is very sick…We don't have anything to eat…My father died from the rocket that hit our house…My father and mother both died…My cousins were killed…My father cannot pay rent…We had to leave Grandma behind…I just brought two dresses…My clothes are not my own…The border guards beat us…My younger brother has gone mad…I have nobody…

I stop taking notes and look into their eyes, as I reflect on my past experiences in Uganda, Ethiopia, Somalia, Rwanda. It doesn't get any easier. I know that each of their experiences will deeply affect their physical and psychological well-being. They are just children, refugee children facing dangers and horror. My eyes well up. Then one little girl leaps into the middle of the room to recite her story. She speaks very loud. A few girlish giggles from across the room helps to release everyone's tension. The next little girl begins her story, speaking very, very slowly. (My translator becomes uncomfortable, she cannot continue.) The storyteller starts crying. Then all the children started crying, sobbing, for over ten minutes.

In the afternoon we began planning ways that the IRC can assist these newly "visible" children. Emergency responses of food, clothing, or something else to help meet their needs, and hopefully for the more unfortunate ones that we did not meet, as so many other children are forced to find work, making money so their brothers and sisters can eat.

Before I slept, I thought about a mother I met in that classroom of storytellers. She told me that all she wanted to do was to tell her story, to share what is really happening. That's all I want to do. Just like the children.

Sigurd Hanson is director of the International Rescue Committee's refugee aid operations in Pakistan and Afghanistan. His diary will appear here several times a week. To contribute, see their website or call 1-877-REFUGEE