Omar’s Perspective In The Camp

• Genevieve Owens-reed
• Short Story
• 2011

setting - Omar in immigration camp

The camp’s crowded.
It’s disgusting.
With people begging, pleading, dying.
That’s when I spot him.
A kid with a soccer ball and a lost look on his face. He’s about my age, with brown hair and lots of freckles, the same boy I saw on the other side of the camp.
I make my way over to him. A plan forming in my mind.
He looks up as I take the last steps towards him and the soccer ball.
“You give me that ball and I give you three dollars American.” I say it unwavering and firm, as though it’s a good price.
For a second, the boy looks confused and I wonder if he speaks my language. I’m about to go in search of something else to buy when the kid shakes his head.
“I’m lost. I need to find my family.” The boy uses perfect grammar and I can tell he will not be easy to trick into selling his things.
I grunt and shrug, as though to say ‘not my problem’.
The kid’s face is swallowed by disappointment, distress and fearfulness, and I can’t bring myself to leave him alone in the enormous camp by himself with only a soccer ball.
“Fine … you give me soccer ball and I find you your family. Agreed?”
I decide this is a good bargain, especially considering the circumstances this boy is in.
But again the boy shakes his head.
“No. I just need to find my family.”
Once again I consider leaving him behind and finding someone else to buy things from.
But I remember the first time I came to this camp and got lost. It took me days to find my way back and when I did … well, there was a new family where mine had been. I realised with a sickening sense my parents had already gone, probably to Australia, but without me.
No more of Mum’s kisses.
No more Dad helping me learn soccer.
I signal to him to come with me and weave my way through the people, not looking back to see if he’s following.
The starving people moan, hoping for sympathy, although they never really have any hope; there’s no compassion or kindness here.
Don’t look at them.
Don’t make eye contact.
Don’t even touch them.
Perhaps I should have told him of the dangers that lurked within the depressed camp.
No, it’s not my job. I’m not even getting paid for this as it is.
Gradually we make it to his family. He rushes forward to hug them and I am a forgotten person in the past.
I leave silently and quickly. The thoughts of my own Mum’s hugs, warm, comforting … no stop … don’t think those things … STOP!
The other people in the camp look at me as though I’m crazy.
I don’t blame them.
I remember a kid who did look crazy; staggering around, his face scrunched up, his eyes depressed and franticly searching, sweeping over the grounds of the camp like a million brooms.
I felt pity for that boy …

that boy was me.