It’s the full package
that I loved,
but in the end,
it is the story
of two boys living in a refugee camp
somewhere in Kenya,
having fled the war in Somalia.
It is not just a book that talks
but one that plays beautiful
Middle Eastern music.
One with many voices
even that of goats and birds
and water and children,
running.
I heard the sounds of laugher,
of tears, and of anger.
It was all a new experience for me,
a book like that of old-time radio
but so much better.
Two boys had lost their mother, not to death but to separation during the war, and they were placed in a refuge camp. The older boy caring for his little brother, a child who could speak but for one word, the oldest in the universe. A boy who lived with seizures, his loss, and his fears. While safe from harm, from the war, they were always hungry, and as the older boy said, you get used to it. You live with it. Yes, there were food rations, given every two weeks or so, but they never lasted. Yet when Ramadan came, they fasted. Such was the perfection of their faith.
They lived in tents and had many of their other needs met, but as the boy said, “It could get boring.” So, he started school, staying away from home for hours a day while others took care of his little brother.
And by the time this book ended, the newness of having sound effects had faded, and I was left with the sadness of knowing that there are people who have been separated from their homes and their families, who had even lost them to death. Whose lives have been on hold for many years. Waiting. But I knew all this before. It just became more personal. Personal, as knowing and seeing the ill- treatment of the men, women, and children at our own boarders.
Don’t think of this book as a children’s book but as a religious experience, one of faith, love and hope.