Once upon a time there was a kid called Al...

Once upon a time there was a kid called Al. Al liked going to family dinners and playing with her dog in the rain. The war started, and Al had to hide. “No more playing in the rain, dear!”, Mom said. Mom didn’t use to worry. Al didn’t think it’d be so bad: at least, there’d still be family dinners. However, the house was no longer a safe place. Words were thrown around like the bombs outside. “Food and Money are missing” – Mom said that all the time. Al thought those were weird names for people, but Mom seemed sad, and so was All – after all, friends at school were going missing too. Al was hungry and cold and school was eventually closed. Mom knew the house couldn’t protect them from a bomb, so they left. A boat, with way more people the numbers Al could count up to. Mom counted up to a hundred more than ten times. More than half was left to count. More than half was left to drown. More than half of those were already dead before being thrown out of the boat – hunger, maybe. Looking around, Al didn’t see much of a difference. Neither did the Europeans in whose continent the rest of them arrived. Al was now a refugee – at least that’s what these locals called those people in those boats – in an unknown country, surrounded by unknown people, speaking an unknown language. Could this be worse than being unsafe in your own home? That’s the question I’ll leave you to answer. The family was taken to a refugee center. Mom needed to find a job and Al started going to school. Mom got a minimum wage job and Al didn’t pass – all she got from what the teachers would say was one sentence “We can’t teach you anything if you don’t know how to speak our language”. But where else would Al learn other than school? People would tell them to go back to where they came from, but how could they? Where else would they go? Mom started asking for money in the street. People passed by, unbothered, not even recognizing her existence. It seemed as she disappeared as her hunger grew bigger. She was no longer a person. Why couldn’t they see her? Why did they refuse to look at her? What had this family done wrong? Al couldn’t understand. Money and Food were missing again and Al soon would realize Food and Money weren’t people, as Mom got home exhausted and skipped meal after meal so her kid could eat. Al is a refugee, but before being a refugee, Al is a kid. A kid who was forced to leave home for reasons no kid could – or should have to – understand. Most of us still can’t – or don’t bother to. Why is that, you ask? Well, this is a question I’ll answer: because we aren’t those kids. Although we can see them, we ignore them as they cross the street to the nearest trash can, looking for Food. We watch them as if they were our favorite show. And when they look at us, sitting in a corner asking for Money or Food, we ignore them again, we tell them that to succeed in life, they need to work. How ironic coming from people who live off of the money their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents left them. We get mad when the government takes a portion of our taxes to help them, not realising that none of that help which is being given is enough. And why should it matter? After all, we aren’t those kids, so why should it matter? Fleeing one’s country is ultimately a final attempt to survive. Shouldn’t that be enough for host countries and their people to welcome and support refugees? Should people risk their lives only to end up being mistreated again, now in a different - “full of opportunities” – country, where opportunities are taken away from them? And the majority of people do actively insist that letting these people in our country is way more than enough! Is letting them succumb to poverty less cruel than letting them die because of war?

Texto: Matilde Silva, 12.º H1

Revisão: Prof.ª Ana Cabaço