Refugee stories are unfinished stories

In the center of a large white tent near the exit of the registration camp sat an 11-year-old Afghan boy, speaking perfectly proper English to a pair of dazzled British journalists. His back was straight and he spoke seriously, choosing his words carefully. His younger brother danced around the photographer, grinned at his own reflection in the camera as his brother was interviewed. Nearby, their mother glowed with pride as she watched her sons.

Next to the Afghan boy’s family was a breastfeeding mother. Her baby was 7 months old and had sparkly round eyes, so dark they were black like the camera lens. I sat at the foot of her mattress, covered in plastic so it can be easily cleaned.

The mother herself sat cross-legged and alone, her head in her hands. She was slight and dark-skinned, with a heart-shaped face and a wide smile, her hair tucked under a knitted winter cap. We chatted about the freezing weather and her baby, who has grown teeth on the top but not yet the bottom. She asked me if I understood what the Afghan family on the other side of the tent was saying and I said, “No, no, I don’t know any Farsi.” She nodded and told me that she understood everything, because she knew Farsi, because she had grown up as a girl in Iran. She moved to Iraq only as a refugee, when she was older.

“Bad things have followed me my whole life. You should be careful sitting next to me,” she laughed bitterly and propped her chin on her hand, the baby girl nestled against her breast. “This is the second time I’m fleeing. There will be a third.”

I asked her, but she must have hope for the future?

No, she explained, because she hates her husband. He beat her in Iraq from the beginning of her marriage and now she’s waiting to be met by more of the same in Germany.

“It’s the same life for me. Nothing will be different except the country.”

Later, I saw the same woman crushed in a mass of people pushing their way onto the train to Croatia. The train arrived seven hours late and hundreds of people were desperate to continue. Earlier, rumors had swept through the camp: Angela Merkel was closing Germany’s borders, Europe had shut the path for refugees. None of the statements were true, despite being promoted by the Serbian Commissariat for Refugees. All that had happened was the German transport minister calling for the borders to be closed.

I edged behind the crowd along the wall of the station, clutching a grey blanket and frantically searching for a family with three boys shivering so violently they could only cry. I remembered where they stood earlier but the train doors had opened already and the crowd was shuffling into new formations as people were pulled aboard, swinging their bags up the steep steps.

I turned when I heard someone calling my name. It was the mother from the tent, her baby strapped to her chest and her husband standing behind her. We laughed and waved, and blew each other gloved kisses until the crowd swallowed her from my sight once again.