A Privileged Refugee
When I opened the door, one of my host friends opened his arms and said “Welcome, refugee!” I then realized I was one.
I was watching Thor at UCSB when the power flickered and the lights went out on campus. My friend was an Assistant RD and needed to be on call for whatever was happening, so I drove back to my home in Montecito.
When I turned off the freeway onto Milpas, the street was completely dark except for the Christmas-decorated island in the middle of the roundabout. No stoplights, no streetlights, the only light streaming from the headlights of cars.
It was eerie and quiet. I remember thinking, “This is how it begins.”
Later that night I learned of the Thomas Fire that broke out in Santa Paula and was raging through Ventura. The fire alone caused power outages from Los Angeles to Goleta. I knew that this was something big.
As the week progressed, the flames grew due to the winter Santa Ana winds, same winds that would make me worried my car’s emergency brake would be overpowered. By Wednesday when I came home from work, I could barely breathe. I knew then I needed to get out.
I spent one hour packing my first load of valuables in the car, taking my heirlooms, college degree, pictures, a painting my high school best friend painted for my 18th birthday, a suitcase, a crate of special books, a few bags of shoes and toiletries, my pillows, and sleeping bag. I then left, running late to a dance rehearsal I had for an upcoming performance that Friday.
I reached out to my friends who lived in Goleta, a place with significantly better air quality and who had an essential oil air diffuser that would help my lungs and 60% closed throat. They graciously said yes for me to spend the night. I decided to do so the following day, choosing to stay at my sister’s place just down the hill from me that night. The following day at work, I watched as the fire surrounded Ojai, licking the edge of back-country. I kept up with the news on my Alma mater’s feed, wondering if they were going to evacuate their students right before finals. My company decided to close, and ordered us to leave the facility before 3 pm. Unsure of where to go and where to continue working remotely, I bounced around restaurants and stores before going back to my sister’s place and finishing my work.
That night, after I finished my late night dance rehearsal, I finished picking up all my things and went to my friends’ house.
Strapping on my N95 mask and grabbing my suitcase, I walked up to the door and knocked. When the door opened, my friend extended his arms in the air, saying “Welcome, refugee!”
And for a second, I realized, I was one.
I am someone who had been displaced and was seeking refuge. Although I don’t qualify for the nuance of refugee (as I’m not fleeing my native country), I realized I experienced all the fear, anxiety, frustration, and pain that comes from not feeling safe.
And I only had to leave my home; I didn’t have to leave my country.
In light of President Trump’s recent comments about immigrants coming from undesirable nations, adding to his entire flawed rhetoric and view on the subject, I’m struck by how much we put fleeing persons in a box with our thinking. Even though I experienced it on such a small scale, I’ve gained a far greater understanding of what it means to be displaced.
It’s not easy to leave your home. Emotionally, it takes so much effort to even get the suitcases out and decide what is important and what isn’t. As you triage memories, essentials, and heirlooms, you begin to realize certain things you thought mattered no longer do. I had to leave due to a natural disaster. Others have to leave due to the threat of their own life either through persecution, poverty, war, or oppressive governments.
I was able to escape with car-full of only my belongings to a place where I had internet, electricity, food, water, and a bed to sleep in. I was able to live among friends, not strangers, call my family and assure them of my safety, still work remotely and get paid. I attended dance rehearsals, getting ready for performances, and still planned to have my tonsil removal surgery a week later.
I was displaced but still able to live my life. I am a privileged refugee.
After a month of not being home due to mandatory evacuations and my recovery, I finally returned Friday, January 5th. I unpacked all my belongings, cleaned out all the clutter, and found myself breathing a sigh of relief to be home. Four days later, my community of Montecito got hit with a horrific mudslide that killed at least 20 people, and counting, with 5 people still reported missing.
The water has become toxic. A community I spent significant time in has been swept away.
Although my home was spared, I now might have to repack and leave again. I am afraid of rain just as much as I am afraid of fire. But again, I find myself in a position of privilege, as I have decision to leave or stay.
Not everyone gets that choice.
