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By Emma Moonlight
In September 2012 I went to teach in one of
the nine refugee camps on the Thai-Myanmar border. The last few days before I
went to camp I was, I have to admit, incredibly nervous. Not of the people, not
of the language barrier, not of the living conditions in general, but mainly
about whether I would get drinking water. Whilst I knew that thousands of
people lived in the camp and had done for many years, so logically my fears
were unfounded, I was still worried.
What strikes me now, though, is how quickly
I adapted to my new life. To me, the living conditions weren’t that bad. Or at
least, I’d expected worse. But then again, I am one of those people who are
perfectly happy trekking through jungle or up mountains and spending three
weeks in a tent. That’s just me, though.
No, what I experienced wasn’t people
starving, children wailing, or complete destitution. It was poverty in a
different way.
While I was there, one of the teachers at
my school found out that she was pregnant. When she told me, she had a smile on
her face but was struggling to hide the tears in her eyes. I was later told
that, as a refugee, she didn’t want to bring a baby up. She wanted to be able
to offer her child a future. She wanted knowledge that her child would be able
to get a decent education, have the opportunity to find work, and, most
importantly, live a life free from persecution. As a refugee, she couldn’t
guarantee her child any of that stability.
The majority of refugees I worked with had
enough food (don’t get me wrong – it wasn’t necessarily always healthy or
varied, but it was food), they had a roof over their heads, and they had access
to education. For adults, though, there was a void. There was absolutely
nothing to do. People left the camp’s school system (if they’d entered it in
the first place) and entered the kind of dull, endless vacuum that comes from
years of living in limbo, waiting for something to happen. They had no way of
knowing what that something might be, or when it might come; let alone who
might make that decision for them.
Some of my English students were working as
primary teachers in the camp. The wages were pitiful and they detested the job
– they had never had any aspirations to become teachers. One of them had
started a law degree at university before having to flee Myanmar. Teaching,
however, was pretty much the only thing to do during the day and the only way
to guarantee that they would have something on their CVs if and when they can eventually leave camp.
This wasn’t poverty the way the Western media
portray it when running news stories or charity campaigns. These were people
who simply exist, carrying out their daily activities with a complete lack of
control over their lives. They had no choices whatsoever to make about their
future, no options or decisions to make. The future, when it was discussed, was
done so in terms of ‘in an ideal world…’ and ‘if I eventually leave here…’
These were big ‘ifs’; many others chose not to openly voice their fears.