How To Befriend French Children (And Other Stories)

by Emilia Symington (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection France

I lived in a Kurdish Refugee Camp for nearly three months. People always say that you learn a lot about yourself when you're travelling. That may well be true, but I've found that you also learn lots about others. Take, for example, Matine. Matine was an eight year old boy living on the camp with his parents and two siblings. He was known for his cheeky grin and mischievous tendencies, and although I loved all the children, I'd developed a particular soft spot for him. Matine didn't fit in with the other boys on the Camp. Although all Kurdish, whilst the other children would traverse the camp causing mayhem and stealing sweets, Matine loved nothing more than sitting with me in the classroom learning to read. He talked to me about his life in Kurdistan, where he had his own bedroom and his favourite food was lobster. It was a far cry from the one room, six-foot-squared shack he was currently residing in with his whole family. Matine's mother, Asma, had been a hairdresser. She took great pride not only in her own appearance, but also in the appearances of her three children. Their whole family were strikingly beautiful, with small features, wide eyes, and dyed blonde hair. Asma went to great lengths maintain their outward image; she spent hours choosing her children's clothes from the donation centre, she swapped food for soap, and she used to convince the other volunteers on the camp to bring her blonde hair dye on a relatively regular basis. I remember Matine had the opportunity to visit a local french school. He was overcome with excitement. That morning, when I came to collect him, he informed me he'd been up for three hours already. "I didn't want to oversleep," he said solemnly. I nodded knowingly. "Ready to go?" "Not yet!" Asma cried, running in our direction. She was clasping a plastic bag. From it, she produced a bottle of perfume. The bottle was pink and unbranded. "I want the other children to like you." She sprayed the perfume all over his wrists and neck. It smelt floral and cheap; hardly the sort of smell an eight year old boy would want. But Matine only protested once she attempted to put the lid back on the bottle. "No!" He insisted. "Spray more. I want to make sure they like me. I need more." Matine's whole family was delightful: full of life, laughter, and positivity. They regularly invited me over for dinner, and willingly shared the little they had. When I thanked them for their generosity, Matine would always joke that when they finally made it to England, I could return the favour and take them out for dinner. I'd laugh and agree, loving his optimism. However, as the time they'd spent in the camp turned from weeks to months, hopelessness began to take its tole. Matine's smile turned to sadness, and he stopped coming to school. I found him sitting on the ground, drawing pictures in the dirt with his finger. I sat beside him in silence. “The other boys Alibaba,” He told me eventually, after a long pause. Alibaba was the camp word for stealing. “They took my books.” “Which boys? I’ll go and ask for the things back.” “They won’t give them back. They’ll keep them." "I can get you new books, Matine." "But that's not the point." He punched the floor, ruining his dirt picture. "They always get everything they want and because I'm good, I get left with nothing.” “But stealing is wrong. You know that.” “Then why does everyone do it?” I hesitated. “In England, stealing is-” “We’re not in England.” “No, but when you get to England-” “If.” He looked me straight in the eyes, and I knew he’d given up hope. That’s what the camp did to children; it crushed their dreams. He no longer saw an escape from the camp. He no longer believed things were going to get better. "Life won't always be like this," I promised. But it was a promise we both knew I couldn't keep. Two weeks later I had to leave the camp. I never saw or heard from Matine again.