Somewhere in the Unknown World: A Collective Refugee Memoir

Irene (formerly Irina) Ruderman Clark is described as having “deep auburn” (3) hair and eyes that are “a blend of brown and green—like gardens of kelp beds and seagrass meadows” (3). Irene is representative of Part 1’s exploration of the experiences of children in times of war and displacement. Her quick progression from a girl into a young woman is a reflection of the accelerated maturation that refugee children often experience. When the chapter begins, Irina is 10 years old. Initially, the text emphasizes her youth and childlike interests: Irina carries a copy of The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking with her everywhere, and fixates on the white dress she knows she’s getting for her 11th birthday. Just over one week later, Irina and her family are forced to flee Minsk as a result of antisemitic violence. At a refugee interview in Rome, Irina wears that same white dress when she begins to menstruate for the first time. Irina explicitly connects this change to her experience as a refugee: “[N]ot only was her life changing, but her body would no longer be the same” (11). For Irina, forced displacement and her first menstruation are both world-changing experiences that project her suddenly into adulthood. Irina’s parents similarly interpret her menstruation as a sign of adulthood, and begin to include her in discussions of the logistics of their family’s displacement. Irina’s narrative demonstrates The Unique Challenges of War and Displacement on Women and Children, who are often forced to mature too quickly.

At the end of the chapter, Irina’s life in America is narrated using her new name: Irene. The final scene describes how, “a year after they left Minsk, in cold Minnesota, beneath another dark sky, Irene celebrated her twelfth birthday” (17). The change from Irina to the Americanized Irene emphasizes the transition into her American life, and literalizes the fundamental changes she experiences in her life and identity as a refugee coming to the United States.

Afghanzada Achekzai was twice displaced from his home of Kandahar, Afghanistan. His narrative is representative of the collection’s interest in the dehumanizing effect of displacement. As Afghanzada travels further from home, he increasingly loses his sense of self. In the opening lines of the chapter, Afghanzada celebrates “Kandahar of my heart, of my country, of my blood, and my skin […] Kandahar, the land of my birth, the birthplace of my ancestors” (115). The specific references to the body in this passage emphasize Afghanzada’s humanity and his deep emotional connection to his home. Afghanzada spends the first 19 years of his life as a refugee in Pakistan, and his descriptions of this time emphasize his sense of isolation: “[P]eople could see from the food we ate, the way we lived, the clothes we wore that we were not Pakistani” (116). He returns to Kandahar because he “want[s] to follow [his] heart” (115), another indication that his sense of identity is tied to his home. Ultimately, Afghanzada is forced to flee Kandahar a second time. On the journey to safety, he destroys his passport, a striking symbol of the loss of his identity as a refugee.

Because he has no passport, Afghanzada is placed in a series of holding centers where he grows increasingly unsure of his humanity, “overwhelmed by the strange feeling of not being able to place [himself]” (132). The narration explicitly connects Afghanzada’s sense of self with his homeland: “Is Afghanistan a dream? Were we real?” (132). As his nation is consumed by war, Afghanzada feels like he and his fellow refugees “were lost in the free world, floating particles” (134). Afghanzada becomes obsessed with obtaining “a certificate of my humanity” (135), echoing the destruction of his passport during the flight from Afghanistan. Ultimately, he is only satisfied when he has resettled in the United States. His story demonstrates the dehumanizing effect of displacement and the importance of resettlement.

Chue Moua is a Hmong American woman who fled violence in Laos by swimming across the Mekong River with her young family. She is the mother of author Kao Kalia Yang, and although her chapter does not feature the narrative of her escape, it is described in the final chapter. Chue is representative of the lasting trauma and Unique Challenges of War and Displacement for Women and Children. At the beginning of the story, Chue is described as disheveled and depressed: “her black hair, kept short, ha[s] grown long” (161) and she spends her days “sluggish, sagging flesh and clothing, sitting on the sofa, her iPhone in her hands” (161). Chue is traumatized by her memories of war. She often dreams of her late father, and has anxiety-induced visions of dark apparitions in her home. Although her family has long been settled in Minnesota, and her children have children of their own, “her heart hurt” (164) at the memory of what she left in Laos.

Chue is also physically exhausted by the labor required of her as a mother and wife. The text describes how Chue ensures that “no matter where they [are]—in the refugee camps or the housing projects of Minnesota—she and her husband’s bedroom [is] a place where the bed [is] always made” (163). In addition to this domestic labor, Chue “place[s] each of her children, alive and dead, before herself with no misgivings or regrets” (164). Chue is physically exhausted by the years spent caring for her husband and family: “[T]he dust of their lives [has] settled on her body and grown so thick she could barely move” (163). Significantly, the work of caring for Chue is left to her daughter, who drives her to doctor’s appointments and acts as a translator when necessary.