How Internally Displaced Persons Changed My Life

Long story short, because of the war with Armenia there are now over one million IDP (internally displaced persons) in the country of 9 million. So over 11% of the population has been kicked out of their homes and the livelihoods they spent generations in. Places of worship have been burnt down, villages and homes destroyed, and the territory taken over. Basically, these people needed places to go until they are able to get their homes back. So, IDP camps formed. And we were able to visit one.

You may have read about these places. You see them on the news. You understand that these people are going through something terrible. But unless you've experienced it, you don't really understand. I can't begin to fathom how it must feel to lose everything and not even be allowed in the vicinity of where you're entire world has ever been. And seeing where they were relocated, seeing the pain in the parent's faces and the way the children interacted, it was something I wasn't quite emotionally prepared for.

Photo credit in this post goes to the lovely Maggie Broderick, one of the American adult participants.

While driving down the road to the residence, the apartment buildings we drove up to could have easily been a set of The Walking Dead- obviously needed better construction and some upkeep that just needed funding. We were warned before hand of a couple things to expect:

-The kids won't share. They have so little that everything you give to them (we brought them paint and brushes- we were going to paint a mural on a wall in the middle grounds), they feel like they need to save it, protect it. 

-Don't take pictures with the [older] kids (especially for American girls, don't let the boys take pictures with you with their devices). I was told this was because they did undesirable things with said photos. To be honest, no one followed this rule. 

-Parents can be grabby. Like the kids, they don't have many possessions. For example, one of the American adults was showing a mother a postcard, and the mother grabbed it and took it into her room and didn't return. 

-No one speaks much English. Maybe a few words. Be warned.

The home for everyone in this camp.

The play area for the kids- wall decorated!

So with that, we entered. First we were brought into this small, two-roomed school and sat down with the 50-odd kids aged maybe 4-16. We were told those two tiny rooms served as the only school available. At first, the children all stayed slightly away from us, which I couldn't help but be reminded of abused puppies trying to figure out if they could trust a new person or not. 

Then we were brought out to play games with the kids. When at first these games were awkward and had no direction, soon groups broke off into their own games. The kids, warming up to our smiles and paint offerings, wanted to play. Two boys had me chase them around for about half an hour until I threw in the towel, and then they ran off to their own fun. A little girl painting on the wall asked me how to spell my name and wrote it for me in paint with a happy smile, which was rather touching.

The kids started interacting fairly fast

But the kids soon became demanding. When the paint ran out, they came to us asking for more. We were told they were used to this sort of thing. Foreigners come, give them stuff, and leave. Its a norm, and they try to milk everything they can get, because why wouldn't they?

Which makes me feel sick, sick that this has happened to living beings, sick that there isn't more being done to help. There doesn't seem to be any sight of permanency to these kids, and the few constants in their lives aren't in any way comfortable.

Paint out, American teens continually being warily reminded by the Azerbaijani YLPers and adults that we should stop posing for pictures the kids were taking, running out of things to do, and having hardly a basis for communication. What to do?

Well, as I walked up to two twins wearing matching red kitten shirts, I smiled and decided to attempt to teach duck duck goose.

Alright, so trying to teach some first graders how to play even this game without having language as a tool proves difficult. But somehow, I managed to get the idea across. And when the two girls were seen running in a circle around me, giggling and tapping each other's heads, others joined. So suddenly we had a rousing game of their own version of duck duck goose in the middle of the playground. That kind of rocked. Except man, those guys were fast.

Soon kids just ran up to me beckoning for me to pat their heads, because they associated that with being able to chase someone. That was cute.

This was a bittersweet experience. Seeing a camp like this first hand, it really showed how little they had. Yet, it was fun being able to make their day better, seeing the smiles and running around with kids who were proud to show off what they had. Who know, maybe several years from now they'll look at that wall we painted and remember the fun we had that afternoon. Maybe we had an effect on their lives, maybe they'll tell their own kids about it.

But then again, maybe not. We were just another round of tourists with gifts. Maybe as soon as we left they were asking their parents when the next tourists were coming. The only thing they really have to look forward to. Just another afternoon of pitying, oblivious, and weird-sounding foreigners who bring gifts like candy and toys.

I want to create something permanent for them. I want to go back, I want them to have trust and confidence in something positive. I want them to have things to share, to have education to grow so they can get out of this rut that must be so, terribly challenging to escape from. I want them to not see foreigners as just strangers, but as friends.