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A Story by WillaDanvers

The happenings of Christchurch, NZ, make me sick. I thought we were better than this. I am praying for everyone affected, and sending you love. Stay strong.


I could tell you of the horrors I saw in my country, but I don’t think you would understand.

You don’t understand the things I have seen or the things I have lived through, you only see my religion and you judge me for it.

The colour of my skin, the tone of my accent, the skin I don’t show, those are the things you judge me on. Not my character, not the way my parents raised me, but the things I cannot change.

I left my country for a better life, but you stop me from having that. You hate me because of a minority of people that share my religion. You hate me because of someone born in the same country as me. You hate me because you think you are better than me.

Maybe you are. But how can you know that without getting to know me?

You don’t know me.

So, I won’t tell you of the fear that has been instilled in me from my childhood, the fear I experienced when I fled my own country, wedged on a boat with so many others who were fleeing, I won’t tell you because you won’t listen. You won’t listen to a word I have to say.

I won’t tell you about that time I broke down on the new land, breathing tainted fresh air, one step further away from the demons that haunt me. How the tears screamed down my face, and how the ground tore at my skin as everyone else rushed the land. The way the air felt good in my lungs for a second, before I felt all the glares and hatred slipping into my system.

I won’t tell you how I had to leave my parents behind because they weren’t able to make it. Not because of money, courage, but because my father was dying. My father was on his death bed, and my mother pushed me out of the home before I could say another word of it.

You won’t want to hear about how I had to hide beneath the floor of truck, wedge myself in there and hold on for the duration it took to get from my landing point, to the United Kingdom. Or maybe you would like to hear that, so you can ignore my reasons and shove in my face the fact that I am an illegal immigrant.

I have experienced things you can’t even imagine.

It took me forever to settle into the night, the silent night, with the occasional car passing by. It’s not what I’m used to. I’m used to fear creeping in beneath the door, wrapping around our throats and choking all sense of belonging or safety from our bones. The distant sound of gunfire, the memory of a bomb going off, the wonderings if those I used to know were still alive, chaos. I was used to chaos.

I wouldn’t expect you to understand.

I close my eyes and I see my brother. Not when he was smiling, or tired from a long day, but the pain on his face as he walked through the streets, blood dripping from all places, trying to hold the tears and keep a brave face. He was caught in the crossfire and he didn’t even make it back to our home. He died on the way, I remember it too well.

The way he crumbled to the ground, connecting to the dirt with a loud groan. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, and he grabbed my shaking hand with the last of his strength.

‘Get out Farah, get away from here.’ His voice crumbled into the chaos.

I cried into his chest, unable to let him go. He was my older brother, he was meant to protect me from the evil ways of the world, but someone took him away from me. I don’t know who to blame. My own country, or the people who lash out in hopes to take out the enemy, pedestrians be damned.

So instead of sleeping, I stare into the darkness and wonder what my life would be like if I had been born into a different time and space. Maybe a different era. Maybe a different culture. I always come to the same conclusion.

Changing my culture wouldn’t make me a better person. Instead of struggling, I would become one to make someone struggle.

I would grow up in an environment that doesn’t understand, and I would lash out because I too, am afraid. I am afraid of those with the guns, and I will blame those closest to me. The ones who aren’t involved, but they share the same religion so that’s close enough. Right?

If they are Muslim, then they must be bad.

I would rather struggle in my own skin, than not understand. Because one day, I might be able to change someone’s mind. Someone might let me show them that I am a good person, despite seeing the evil of the world, I am a good person. I am not shooting people. I am not claiming that my way is best. I am just making my way through life, just like you.

I am not who you think I am.

Please stop judging me before you know me.

I am human. Just like you.

© 2019 WillaDanvers

Author's Note

This isn't my experience. But based on some stories I have heard, and I tried to put myself in their shoes to feel what they feel. It will never be super accurate, feelings and emotions, but I just wanted to grasp the seriousness of today's world. I want us to stop judging people based on the colour of their skin, who they believe in, and what country they were born in.
We are better than this guys. We can be better.

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Added on March 19, 2019
Last Updated on March 19, 2019



Auckland, New Zealand

I am a part time poet, who's words sometimes ring true but otherwise have only gathered information from music, stories or a singular feeling. Anything really. Enjoy the words, and leave a few kin.. more..