At the end of November each year, the city of Amman in Jordan welcomes the gentle winter, surrounded by soft breezes carrying with them the withered leaves scattered upon the wet sidewalks, as though bidding farewell to autumn, while the scent of warm coffee drifts through its streets and lights shimmer upon the windows like quiet smiles announcing the arrival of the new season.
The city declares a state of overwhelming chaos, for with the arrival of this season, the new school year begins, and preparations for returning to schools start within every home.
I hear the sound of a heartbeat that cannot calm itself from the intensity of its excitement; is it a little girl almost soaring from the depth of her happiness because she is going to school? Wearing her school uniform, tightly holding her mother’s hand, gazing with her large shining eyes toward the grand building that carries within it the light of knowledge and the sparkle of life.
Here begins the story of a passion extinguished between the lines, condemned by a word that pursued her wherever she went and settled within the folds of her reality. Here, the tale was born; a girl who once shone brightly, ready to receive and embrace all that was beautiful within the school walls, yet dimmed by the single word echoing through her ears: “Refugee.”
That word stole from her the simplest and most fundamental right a child could possess, and robbed her of the cheerful spirit that deserved to play freely with her friends. Yet it was impossible for her to escape this word, which built around her walls of solid iron, chains that prevented her from living her life because she was surrounded by it wherever she turned and looked.
Her simplest dream, if only you could imagine, was for her classmate to share the book with her so she could look and understand what the teacher was explaining, due to the shortage of books provided for refugees or the delay in distributing them. And as always, her classmate refused to share the book, until she found herself secretly trying to steal fleeting glances at its pages without anyone noticing.
We have reached a time where the thoughts of children have become distorted by intrusive racist beliefs. In order for you to come near me and share the book with me, you must fulfill certain conditions: you must be white, or be from my homeland, for me to allow you to share with me — not a marginalized refugee, strange to me and to my country.
This beautiful little girl was deprived of her share of education, excellence, and success because of trivial reasons that judged her merely for being a refugee. She was diminished even with words that should never leave the innocent mouths of children. Yet the blame does not fall upon the children, for they are receivers, not transmitters. The burden lies upon the family that passes down distorted ideas and beliefs to its children, planting within them poor morals while the fruits of such morals are cast upon refugees because they are seen as the lower class within society.
This little girl had always wished for a fair system — not necessarily an extraordinary one, only one that would be just to those torn away from their homelands and turned into refugees. They must correct these beliefs and educate these children, teaching them that we are different, not lesser. We are human beings at the end of the day; treat me as a human before looking at me through the lens of a refugee.
Just because I was forced to leave my homeland and seek refuge among you does not give you the right to confine me within the shell of “refugee,” deprive me of my rights, belittle my abilities, and look down upon me. I am not restrained by the chains of labels society has cast upon me, nor do these trivial social classifications subdue me.
These shackles could not kill the enthusiasm of that little girl who grew up to become an outstanding young woman, achieving honors with a GPA of 95, ranking first in the very same school that once underestimated her. And in the end, it was I who elevated its status with my honorable achievements for myself and my family. I can almost say with certainty that this is not the end, but merely the beginning of all that is beautiful in the life of this passionate girl.
A girl whose passion did not die because of words; rather, those words became her antidote in life and her motivation to move forward and persevere in achieving her accomplishments. The word “refugee” can never extinguish her radiance; it is not my limit, but my sharpness, my sword, and my strength through which I continue my journey.
From every corner of this school, I created an achievement witnessed by the world, so that everyone may know that we create, excel, and shine in every part of this earth, and our radiance stretches endlessly.
I was that little girl Ruwayda , and from this platform I say: be less cruel. I only wish to be treated as a human being, for I was torn away from my homeland and my beloved land. The soil of my homeland, my dearest love — it was never my choice to be separated from you.
