Adventures of a Forced Migrant Contact Me
If you read nothing today (and hopefully not any of my hormonal teenage crap), you should certainly read this piece:
Whenever people in the United States ask if I’ve ever been camping, I say “No, but does refugee camping count?” Apparently it’s only Real Camping if you take a shit in the deep woods. It means nothing if you have all the latest gadgets for camping from gearhungry.com. It doesn’t matter if you’re up to date on the latest monocular reviews, if you haven’t used tree leaves to wipe your bum, you haven’t truly camped in the woods. I had to shit in the desert in the wide open, and there was no environmentally friendly self-dissolving toilet paper out there. We used the sand as soap. I still believe it works. I have to.
The year was 1990. Iraq had just invaded Kuwait, and we didn’t know what was going to happen next. I was eight, I never knew anything anyways. I remember my parents trying to hold on to Kuwaiti Dinars, the old money. I remember seeing Iraqi soldiers, who were nice enough in the city to Indian immigrants with little kids. School was closed and I knew it was bad of me to be glad, but I was. We had sleepovers every night with my two best friends Aarti and Aru’s families. We danced, played cards, watched movies, and stayed up late every night.
Seriously. Do it. Then, send it to your friends and family members.
I shouldn’t be the only person to be rendered speechless and unproductive by this wonderful person and writer.