A Refugee Chasing Her Dream

When I was young, I used to think the other side of the mountain was America. If only I can climb to the top of the mountain I can look down at America, the place where everyone dreams of going. There are mountains surrounding the area of where I call home. At the bottom of the mountain was another barrier. A barrier of wires that hung across the area. Inside the wires, another barrier is set up. A barrier of police and soldiers to guard the entrance. The entrance of a place I didn’t ask to be in. The entrance of a place that gave me no choice. A place where I couldn’t ask questions about dreams. Born into the place, I quickly learn that my only hope is the uncertain future. My only future is in the systems of survival of the fittest. If I can survive the broken and weak system I can be a little closer to what they call dreams. As a young girl, dreams were never mentioned to me. The idea of dreams was not invented for me to know. Inside the entrance, there are words for hope, future, and faith. But there was no such a word for dream.

Every day, I wake up to a sunrise and the alarm of the roosters. Going down the hill and going up the hill is where I start. Down the hill to the well filled with hopelessness and mercury waters. Up the hill to my house made of bamboo stitched together and cold hard floors for support. Down the hill, I walk on the street that leads to a twisted dead end. The street I walk on with laughter, neighbors waving, mother and her kid making a living. The street takes me to a building of learning. The only place where I am given a glimpse of a shattered dream and not enough hammers to fix the shattered dream. Learning that becomes meaningless. I leave the building and walk on the street again. On the street, learning is thrown into a river of waste. The river floods them all to unnecessary places. The street leads me back to the well of water, I walk up the hill again. At the top of the hill, I go in search of survival. Searching for any pieces of leftover yellow beans and edible plants. My search takes me into the woods. The woods that only exist for wolves and ghosts. When the sun sets, there is darkness. A candle is lit in hopes there are no winds. The candle shines a little for words to come alive. When the words come alive I discovered a piece of a fulfilled dream. Before I can know what the whole of a piece is, I must blow out the candle and rest in the darkness.

Some days, I wake up to a chatterbox in the sky. The only voices I hear beyond the guards, the wires, and the mountains. The chatterbox is filled with music. The kind of music that had no instruments. There were only words of disappointment. Down the hill, I walk on the street opposite of a twisted dead end. On the street, I walk toward a destination that provides strength in faith. The street shows me pictures of monks humming their verses, uninhabited spaces without someone to claim, a man selling ice cream making a living. The street ends in a building where the language is unknown to me. Stories are told to give hope to the darkness. I head back on the street but the stories are melted away in the hot blazing heat. The sun melts them away into the emptiness deserts. The street has many branches that travelers use. The street takes me to the bottom of a ladder. At the bottom, I see the greediness of the higher class chewing on meat. They leave their leftover for the broken. The greediness makes me vomit into a sea of blood. The sea of blood that my parents ran away from. I walk back on the street to peek at an unsanitized wood. Inside the wood is where death appears to the ones who can’t get medicine. Seeing death multiple times I cling onto a piece of broken glass. My hands bleed from clenching too hard but I can see a dream through one piece of the broken glass.

When I was young, I used to look out at the entrance. I did not know what was beyond the entrance. There were tales that told. Tales that beyond the entrance were terrifying monsters. Tales that beyond the entrance were beautiful waterfalls that flourished the rice fields. Tales that questioned my own curiosity about where I was born. My mouth was shut sealed and left in the darkness. A darkness that had no future. Stepping out of the darkness I began a new journey. Three-day journey to a foreign land. The land that I always thought about when I looked at the mountain. In the new entrance where questions, opportunities, and dreams await. This is where I first heard of freedom where there are no guards, no wires, and no mountains so I freely and tightly hold onto dreams. I had climbed the mountain of barriers and crossed the other side. On the other side, I had found that there are words for hope, future, faith, and dream.

By Tay M.