c/o Filippiada,
Camp for Refugees
a collection of poems by
Lea Knowles
Preface
A
month spent working in Filippiada camp cannot fail to leave a lasting
impression on a volunteer. The ‘refugee crisis’ and its attendant injustices,
obscenities and frustrations can raise the blood pressure for sure, but
ultimately you are left with respect for the resilience of these trapped,
injured and bewildered people, Afghani, Iraqi, Kurdish and Syrian. One can
only pray for an end to the turmoil in their countries and in their lives.
These poems are dedicated to them.
Contents Page
Filippiada haiku 3
- 11
Refugees 13
Arta Bridge 14
The Threat of a Storm 14
Warehouse 15
Look-Out 15
Perhaps 16
Tent Peg 18
Anahita 19
Stone Throwers 20
Hugs 20
Going to School 21
Ali 22
Mr Sneezy 23
Thesprotiko 24
Ice Cream 25
Naser 25
Not Dreaming 26
Narges 27
If You Should Ever Meet Them 28
I Can 30
A Kind of Haunting 31
Holes 32
Zainab 33
Fundamental Errors 33
Sound of the Storm 33
Boat People 34
Swimming with Sharks 35
Exodus 36
Syria 36
Aid Workers 36
Syria 36
Aid Workers 36
Filippiada
the barrier fell
and a family split by
hard stares, rough arms, hard hearts
headful of sorrow
a furnace of dirt and grit
heartstrings bound by wire
terror in the night as
the boat split apart
wreaking its own kind of terror
chilling to the bone
discarded by the roadside
caught in the throat
lone tortoise rescued
the children know what it is
to live with fear
pricking exhausted skin
sky empty of birds
hot breeze sifts the grit
we seek out the walls for some
slim midday shade
pulling the zips on my bag
hoping for a gift
rattling over harsh gravel
with water rations
running children wild
clutching at stones
till play turns to war
bearing wounds on their hearts
where fires still burn
but suspicions seep through
their ethnic clothing
amid coughs and prayers the
camp slowly rises
hey my friend, my friend
just for me, just for me
you no good, no good
that so slight infant body
too fragile to swing
the village sleeps on but
we must be at work
sleeping through the midday
but we sweat it out
pool of air we dive into
to keep our cool
engulfing pillows of dust
we are driving blind
from across the blue-green lake
this cool drift of air
creating their mayhem then
running away
they’re running for hugs
to be lifted off the earth
to know they’re still loved
the Afghan girls come
head scarves billowed by the breeze
‘hello my teacher’
hacked and maimed – this,
my hot and gusty school
my favourite tree
on a dusty bank
shaded by a tortured tree
wind disrupts my school
above heat and noise
in the cool plane trees of Arta
sparrows are singing
piling on the heat
Arta and I sweat it out
so cool beneath the trees
officer on the gate
checks nothing but the air-con
returns to sleep
from a Liverpool fan
free bed at the four star
Siyar Hotel
chai tent revives
I give away my shirt
for a cool place to chat
in the chai tent
how hot, sweet and lovely
we talk at end of day
shouts from the goalmouth
an international language
transcending borders
Spanish inquisition
deep gloom of the warehouse
tortured with heat
kids, rattling the locks
clambering the steel gate
craving attention
volunteers at work
in the warehouse where they must
preparei for winter
from Aladdin’s cave
a hidden child trying to
escape with a toy
her child drags a toy
yellow truck with broken wheels
across the hot stones
see the silver birds
wheeling, glinting in the sun
veils of mist rising
storks rattling like bones
gliding like premonitions
coming home to roost
‘my life has been hard
so hard every day but
will soon be over’
injured beyond pain
but this tortured tree still wants
to be our school
thunder getting close
intent on soaking my class
storm clouds gathering
strong gusts rips through
our tree school wrecked and scattered
but we still press on
desolate hillside
bears a dust-choked weariness
refugees, stay strong
caught in a moment
grit in the eye, or memory
holding back tears
as guests of honour
children dance and sing for us
fruit juice and cookies
split, scuffed and worn-out
dust-choked and weary I leave
my battered shoes behind
final round of goodbyes
but the children won’t let me
just fade away
hard to look back on
this white sea, these canvas waves
where some are drowning
they must not, I must not
disclose the pain of leaving –
goodbye my teacher
now I close my eyes
hear their voices clearly and
time is standing still
REFUGEES
A flock of wounded doves
driven ragged into an empty cage
by blood-red fog and the blackened dew
of dawn
staggers to the end of the world.
The past echoes like thunder
in the dark clouds assembled
and a orchestrated breath
borne on a careless wind
wraps a barren land in shame.
ARTA BRIDGE
Old lady of the river
Cracked and bent with time
Generations carried on your back
When you have waded across troubled times
You are now allowed to rest and soak your feet
In the trickle of cool blue water.
THE THREAT OF A STORM
Storm clouds gather and ponder
Brooding over the billowing tents
Whether to blast in tumultuous deluge
To quietly drown or
Blow softly and allow them to drift away.
WAREHOUSE
Hammering the warehouse door
Pleading for attention
Trying to evade the guardians
Of their welfare –
Wreaking gentle havoc
A game, for a steal;
Better than scrabbling in the dirt
Kicking a punctured ball
Dragging a broken toy
Or throwing rocks
To bite back the anger inside.
LOOK-OUT
Children clamber the look-out steps,
Barber seeks its shade.
From here a soldier once stood guard
Now only ruins surveyed.
PERHAPS
Perhaps it was you
Who first flitted across my dreams
A far away shadow across the screen
Amid screams and blasts
And the rattle of death,
Each rising pall of smoke
An end to life, and then
There was you, without face,
Without eyes or mouth or name
Trying to keep your grip.
Perhaps that was you running
Through the shattered streets,
Fearing the bullet but running anyway
To pay the black-hearted,
Join the river of humanity
Flowing away
From the place of your birth.
Perhaps it was you I saw
Trudging, blind and blistered
Across a frozen landscape,
The remains of a life in a plastic bag
As the world looked on.
Perhaps it was you
That brute force split you apart
And moved you back into the shameless night
And twisted razor wire around your heart.
Perhaps it was you
Who saw your child alter
From the child you knew,
Heard her night-screams,
Felt the wet bed,
Saw the flesh fall from her arms,
Her cheeks,
Eyes growing wild as her hair;
And you felt sorrow mingled in the blood
of your love and helplessness.
Perhaps you were among those we saw
Crammed on that leaking raft
Clinging to your child
As around you bodies floated.
Terror in the night as the world watched
In horror and debated.
Perhaps you were among those
Who staggered cold and wet,
Helped onto a foreign beach
By caring hands,
Terful and trembling and
Thanking God for your safe deliverance
But not knowing the road for you ahead.
But now it is you I see every day
Stripped of dignity
Pleading for your safety,
For an ear,
For a mind to unfold,
Who must feed the hope that one day
Life will be good again.
And as the bells ring out for Assumption Day,
It is you who greet me every day
With your smile,
Knowing this day will be like all the rest,
Trying to believe that somewhere
Someone is writing your future
Free of dust and heat and war, reunited
With those lost to you.
Your children will outgrow their memory and find
That life that is by rights yours and theirs..
Perhaps. I pray.
TENT PEG
It was lying in the rubble
where it had been thrown,
considered of no further use
or pulled out and hurled
in a moment of frustration.
But though thought of as just another scrap,
In my hand it has a purpose and a job to do.
ANAHITA
She wanted to write
but the words would not come –
thought them worthless, shameful,
a betrayal of her heart.
She wanted to draw
but the colours would not flow –
too soon for flowers and birds or clouds,
or places from her childhood
now torn apart – frightened
to release the power and savagery
of her inner eye that
may undo her mother’s fragile smile.
Perhaps she was right.
Perhaps she needed to know that
whatever lies buried will not reappear
but rot with time.
There will come a time to write, to draw,
to express the beauty of her mind
but for now she is sensing
amidst the turmoil and confusion
a power that lies elsewhere
and that it’s not over yet.
STONE THROWERS
They throw stones – at everything.
They spit and snarl, scream and shout
bite and pinch, kick and punch
from fiery pits of dark anger
they cannot explain
so for now they will continue to throw stones.
HUGS
They run to us for hugs –
from anyone, at anytime.
They want to be lifted off the earth
and held with a softness meant
only for them
to hear softness in a voice
that is speaking to them alone –
no matter the language,
and a meeting of eyes and hearts.
GOING TO SCHOOL
Then one day
they came and took our schoolroom away –
small, small symbol of a normal world
of something happening for the children.
It had only just been painted –
clock face, an alphabet frieze, a new door,
a new nail to hang my poster from –
but they took it all away,
even the joy and liberty of knowledge denied.
Within a week lessons were learned beneath the trees,
Amidst the dirt and the ants,
the faeces and the bare concrete of the bunkers:
the children would not be denied – they loved their school.
And the former schoolroom?
Now a conversion project –
to become an air-conned sanctuary
for men to get a beard trim
and charge their mobile phones.
ALI
I was telling them of my past, my family,
that they might get used to my voice and
my voice gets used to me,
teacher, of that paced, precise English – key
to a future life they want to own.
So I outline my family tree,
chalk it onto card for all to see.
We practise familiar words –son,
daughter, brother, sister, mother, uncle,
grand and great grandparents.
They marvel at their dates and ages,
unsure about their own,
enjoying the novelty of pronunciation
of strange names with tongue and lips.
They listen as I explain and repeat
asking questions innocently
until my idiot brain takes over
to suggest they draw their own tree.
It only takes a second for the children to agree
but Faezah’s eyes are swimming .
Ali lays his pen down,
looks sadly up at me –
we have lost so many branches, says he.
MR SNEEZY
You were the perfect visual aid, Kazim –
a natural.
I was teaching the ‘ee’ sound, as in ‘feet’
and suddenly you obliged with a verb of your own,
to the interest and amusement of us all.
We enjoyed the sneeze as we moved on to meet and greet
and Greece and sleep, but
you keep reminding us
with moisture on your cheek
and each time the children cheer
at our champion Afghan sneezer of the week!
THESPROTIKO
These morning mountains seem tame,
their quiescence casting you into their cool blue.
The good people of the valley are watering their baskets,
their orchards, trimming
their vines.
A ripple of church bells sweetens the air
And the stork glides free to its nest.
But in the camp, just the battering of the children
on the steel warehouse door.
ICE CREAM
Once I saw a shop that sold ice cream.
My daughters love ice cream.
I like ice cream too, but I prefer chocolate.
Today there are jobs to be done in the haima
But tomorrow I will leave the camp and go with my children
into town.
We will walk beside the road for perhaps an hour.
It will be hot; they will be tired but
we will arrive in Filippiada and
I will find that shop and
I will buy ice cream for my brave and beautiful daughters,
whatever flavours they like –
and perhaps some chocolate for me.
NASER
(based on a conversation between us)
To Ireland, you say!
I have not heard that wish expressed before –
It’s usually Germany, Sweden or Denmark.
Have you family already in Ireland? No?
But you think you know where it is.
Well, no! It’s not really in London.
OK, well it’s not exactly empty –
the land is not for free, though
the overall density of people if fairly low.
Yes, I think it would be hard to get to from London
and paying traffickers to get you there is not such a good
idea.
No, I don’t know any.
To be honest, I don’t think your skills as a translator of
Farsi into English
would be in great demand –
no, not for Pashto either, I’m afraid; there’s just no call…
There just aren’t many refugees living in Ireland,
at least not yet.
Oh! So that’s why you want so much to go there: no people!
To be free of the past; to make the ultimate escape.
But you need a positive reason.
Have you heard about the Guinness and Temple Bar? –
Perhaps not. They are of no consequence.
Ah! I see you have started learning Greek.
I think this is a wise decision, my friend.
NOT DREAMING
A faint lick of air wafts the canvas awning
flicks up the midday heat a little
then settles back to sleep –
to sleep, if not to dream,
for dreaming permits Hope to be renewed,
so often dashed, denied or
sold back as a lie, so that now it seems
we are to be mocked even in sleep.
Looking back at dreams we shared,
for our children, for our land,
through the efforts of our own hands
tangible, real, fuelled with expectancy,
swept away on a tide of blood and bigotry;
swept away to join a sea of cant and hypocrisy.
We had such fine things – mosques, schools,
shops, markets, farms, orchards - gone.
And so it is gentler to myself
not to think of a past realm where dreams once shone,
not to dream of a future in case those dreams too are washed
way.
But to sleep through the boredom and heat
to give me enough strength
to see me through another day.
NARGES
Every time I glance down I see
on my wrist the band you made me,
the one in the colours of Afghanistan.
Instantly I am re-immersed in your bright eyes,
your mischievous smile, your tragedy.
I replay the moments of fun when
you stood on my feet and we shuffled across the gravel
till you spun off to play some other game.
And there was you speaking Spanish to me
till you realised I was English; then you came
to my tree school and tried so hard – a good student
among many.
You will go far if they give you the chance, and
you will do your mother proud.
So I will wear your wrist band often and
count it among my treasures
for the light and life and love from which you made it.
IF YOU SHOULD EVER
MEET THEM
If you should ever meet them, they will call to you,
run up to be picked or to high-five you then veer away,
run their fingers through your hair
and gaze into your eyes the better to know your heart.
They will clutch your waist and investigate accessories
test the zips and buckles on your bag,
proudly show you their small small achievements
and pull you to their haima.
They may push and jostle, shout and spit,
shove and kick without apparent reason
until you see that all must me equal
even in poverty.
They may clamber on your back and shoulders,
run off with your cap
investigate pockets for any gift that might be
‘just for them’.
They will take things they should not –
off you, of each other
needing to learn to share, to wait their turn,
to be patient,
to learn the rules of the game.
They will scale fences and cars,
clamour at the warehouse door
trying to get to the toys and food,
uninhibited refusals to obey,
wild as roadside flowers.
*
But if you should ever meet them
they will greet you with their English
and cuddle you back.
If they know your heart they will
give you what they have just made,
for it is all they have to give.
They will warn you of an open
zip,
invite you to their haima for hot sweet tea,
hosted with a civility born of a former life.
They will return that which you thought lost long ago
and will play with their siblings among the refuse and the
dirt.
They will help at home washing clothes, collecting water,
cleaning the tent, preparing food,
learning the rules of economy and survival.
If you should ever meet them
they may irritate and frustrate
but they will charm and entertain
with their smiles, their laughter
their vivacity.
They will return your love and
will you not let you fade away,
nor you them, for they are children.
I CAN
I can sit in my garden,
admire the flowers and the raspberries ripening,
I can listen to birds, listen to the news on the radio.
As I make a shopping list
I can smell the lavender and rosemary.
I can watch the washing flap madly as it dries in the sun,
mow the lawn and marvel at the variegated greens
dappled by filtered light.
I can sweep the gravel back to its path
feel my skin thrilling to a cool breeze.
I can see the planes pass over on their way to the sun,
watch the cat laze in his favourite spot.
I can welcome my family and hug them
and laugh and play and talk of silly things,
watch catch-up TV,
have another cup of tea if I like -
but then, I am not in Filippiada.
A KIND OF HAUNTING
I thought I could put those moments away,
in their own slot of time,
out of the way of every day
until I chose to bring them back to life.
I thought I could easily fold and pack them on my own,
store them on a shelf of my choosing
but instead they gently haunt my days,
taunt my nights, naked in the hours before dawn,
leading sleepless treks across sharp gravel
into caves of treasure useless to me.
I trip over ropes, grit blowing into my eyes
as I struggle to stop the tree from dying
and keep hopes alive.
Children holding broken toys
clamour for food, for knowledge, for attention
waiting for me to perform a miracle,
turning foul food into a feast and
blessing them with the sign of a refugee.
But in the end
I can perform only to my limits
restricted to that moment when
I tried to conjure change.
I thought I could safely put away that moment
but I can’t – not alone –
and I’m not sure I want to.
HOLES
See these ragged holes the bullets made
in every street, in every single wall and door;
see the craters left by rocket shells –
a war leaves holes in so much more.
ZAINAB
She likes stroking cats and dogs –
cats are her favourite –
and the Spice Girls and One
Direction –
but you can’t stroke them.
She lives within the prophet’s law
that angry men see fit to ignore -
It seems all they know is
what has been washed into their minds
and out of their mouths
dark and twisted words spread
through the blasphemy of the bomb.
Their well of morality dry as bone
as time ticks towards an end
when there can be no time for childhood
where all the cats and dogs are dead.
FUNDAMENTAL ERRORS
You imagine your cause anointed
that God fights by your side
approving the evil persona
you seem to wear with pride.
But if He passed among you now
how could you not feel it’s true,
His fury and disgust,
how ashamed He’d be of you!
SOUND OF THE STORM
Throughout the silence of night
I lie awake till morning light,
cannot still my tortured mind
and leave my fears for you behind.
I see your face upon the screen
in barren fields that once were green
I feel the heat behind your tears
that seem to flow across the years.
I want to show how much I care
but not sure how, not sure where.
I want to comfort with a kiss
and fill your longings with a taste of bliss
I want to tell you it’s alright
I want to bring you peace tonight.
I regret not having the power
to turn the gun into a flower.
For though your world and mine may be far apart
we are joined together at the heart.
But you look at me as if to say
‘Just take my life, throw it away;
this current of pain all my people know
is the only river that will ever flow’.
BOAT PEOPLE
Beyond the lapping waves
afloat on the calm seas of summer
they drift away from the sun
huddled forms, jumbled voices
disconnected phrases in varied tones
betraying fear – few of them joking
then the silence.
Mother to child clings
not knowing the end
afraid to reach the bottom
of the bottle of water,
land lost to sight,
the only light
the impenetrable stars.
Adrift on the sick waves of sleeplessness,
nothing to lose but their lives
to be washed up on a golden beach.
SWIMMING
WITH SHARKS
We tried to swim the open sea
but washed ashore
with every other wave
gasping for breath.
Left to dry out on sandbanks
like whales
till the next tide launches us
into foaming seas
growlers prowling
storm clouds tearing
at the fabric of the sky,
carried with the flow
into deeper waters.
Only hollow reeds and the power of prayer
saved us from drowning
just to face the next wave.
The ship passed us by -
indignant folk pointing, some shouting,
but not till our last gasp
did they throw a lifeline
opining it was we who chose
to go swimming with sharks.
EXODUS
As wild breakers roll
their bright spindrift blown
whirled from the roar and tumult of the fall
the punch and echo of cascading shells,
a balance has been tipped,
the choice between the lesser of two hells.
You must take to the salt-bitter trail
bearing nothing but the hope
that on a foreign shore
some kind of wisdom will prevail.
Blood seeps into an eastern sky
SYRIA
There is no love left in Syria, she says.
When she sleeps, she feels
she carries the souls of her friends
in her heart
AID WORKERS
where a careless sun has cracked the earth,
where demonic winds turn quiet dreams to dust,
and the fires of hell are falling.
Already they are risen.
When there is no hiding but in confusion
and daytime shadows merge with nightghasts,
still they are there.
Even as their fingers burn
they hold a candle, hold a hand
and comfort till you sleep.
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