Living in the past, hibernating in the present

By Merima Trbojevich From the moment he departed, leaving everything he had, he's become just one more number on a long list of refugees. He's become a number which has neither colour nor aroma, goodness nor malice, fault nor virtue — a number which does not represent anything he was or had. He's become a new person, a stranger to himself, without his family, his home, his job and his memories, good and bad, which are dear to him. Everything happened in a moment which he neither wished nor chose. He ran away to save his life, having no clear idea about his future. He's become one among 2.5 million stolen Bosnian souls who began their voyage around the globe. In some way, the world has disappeared for refugees like him. He treasures every memory because he cannot forget who he used to be and where he comes from. His memories are a substitute for reality; they are his real identity since he hasn't got anything else. The future does not exist yet; the future is for other people — those who haven't fled and have no fear in their eyes. He lives in the past and hibernates in the present. He tries to give new meaning to his life but finds it has become like novels he once read. He's become the unwilling hero in the novel, but the reality of such a life is a lot worse than he could have imagined. He has no answers for the questions which hover around him. Refugees would rather avoid ordinary courtesy, like the questions — How are you? What do you do? — because they do not have the real answers and this desperate uncertainty is the worst part of their lives. It is not easy to adjust to a completely new environment: new language, new culture, new and unknown tradition. In Bosnia, everything was so different — neither better nor worse, just different. Like many other refugees, labourers or engineers, housewives or teachers or doctors, he has to change everything. He has to forget his habits, his pleasures, the job that he enjoyed. Depending on his fluency in the new language, he is mute when he needs to say so much. He becomes isolated against his will, and depression can overwhelm him, transforming him into a stereotypical victim. Psychologists refer to this as refugee syndrome, but medicine has nothing to do with it. He needs only time and love — a need he keeps hidden, frightened that he could lose everything again. Those who wish to adjust and succeed in the new environment have to learn the first rule of a refugee's life: recognition and respect for the customs and social habits of the country which offered them asylum. For most of the refugees this is not easy because they always make comparisons — considering their new homeland by their old criteria. But even this is understandable: they are just defending themselves from the unknown.