This is a fictional account told in the perspective of a Jewish forced migrant during World War II. Its inspiration is taken from “We Refugees” by Hannah Arendt and “We Were the Lucky Ones” by Georgia Hunter. Home. Home is a universal term for safety and compassion and nourishment. For comfort and acceptance and freedom. Home is where you are confident and where others love and support you unconditionally. Home can be a place, person, thing, or feeling, but most importantly, we all have a home. Even in times of great despair, with no sense of belonging, home can be found within oneself, or in one’s dreams, or in a lonely landscape of nothingness. Feelings of home arise as we remember the faces and laughter and voices of those we love, of those who are our home. But as the relentless ticks of clocks pester us at all hours, as the impressions of those most dear to us fade, as the days and nights blur into one, we realize how little we are left with. The air strangles us, the sun blinds us, the moon fails in illuminating our blackened world, but the stars glisten. “We think the stars more reliable advisers than all our friends” (Arendt, 1994). They guide us. But can they guide us home? Are they our home? They hold their place above us and disappear only at day break. Their lustrous shine captivates us, yet they are untouchable, exploding balls of gas that burn millions of miles away. Yet somehow we can still see them, and somehow, everyone sees the same stars. Our friends, who have left us, rendering us helpless, forcing us to surrender to the weight of the truth, see our stars. They have fled and been taken and confined in this brutal world as their lives tantalize them, as their memories fall just beyond their reach. They are blind to anything that stands in their way; blind to everything but the stars. Our families vanished, leaving no trace, no way to ever know if they have survived through this hellish reality, or if they have succumbed to the persistent beating heart of evil. Seconds, minutes, days, weeks, months, and years pass without a tinge of joy or sorrow or anger or fear. Life pases by, but the stars remain to count the days and nights of solitude. Alone, all sounds are the same deafening volume, tainted with equal amounts of terror and excitement. But the silence extinguishes the warmth within us before any noise penetrates our ears, before any feeling of hope can creep into our hearts. In these melancholic times, all we can wish for is that those we love can see our stars. As we do the impossible, as we attempt to accept and forget, we must will ourselves to survive. We must conjure motivation out of grief and defeat. We must project our ideas because not only have we been abandoned by those who love us and those who hate us, but we have been stripped of our rights. Our freedom torn from our hands. Our voices dampened, ignored, and unheard. Our thoughts slashed from our minds because they were threatening. We are called “refugees” as if we are no longer humans, as if displacement and genocide revoke our dignity and our right to live alongside others. And while we have sought refuge, and we have suffered, and the course of our lives have changed dramatically, we are more than just a title. A degrading and dehumanizing title. A title of pity. Of disgust. We are told to remain in the shadows. They say we are lucky, that we have come to a better place. They say they will protect us from hatred and destruction, but in order to be safe, we must be invisible. How can we thrive if we are only allowed to survive in the dark? How can we feel welcome in the place supposed to be our new home as we continue to live under restraints? How can we be happy as we know our world shatters? “How?” we ask, “How is it possible?” We need explanations and consolations, yet we know they are unobtainable. We have been deprived of so much, but we still have the stars. Inés Rossi '21 (BHSEC Queens)
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