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.

Azerbaijani History and the Ambassador

After the meeting over the Nargorno-Karabakh dispute, we headed over to a near-by cafe where I ordered a rather displeasing fish salad and this decent chicken soup. Some adventures don't work out.

Afterwards, we went to an old mansion that had been donated as a museum, and were able to see first-hand how gorgeous interior design was in old-fashioned Azerbaijani buildings. The museum gave us these bags to put over our shoes in order to not track anything in to the house, so the twenty-odd group of chattering Americans made their way through a guided tour full of historical facts and wonderful architecture decisions.  

They had some random framed things, such as this traditional rug.

I'm obsessed with the chandeliers in this mansion. Such ornate detail was given to everything, especially the ceilings. 

This is traditional Azerbaijani woman's wear. My friends have dresses like these for special occasions, such as the holiday Novruz.

Again, the ceiling. Hours upon hours must have been spent with this detail. It was absolutely stunning. 

One room had a ceiling entirely of fragmented glass like this. The effect was dazzling. 

Next came the party. I don't believe I've thus far mentioned this invitation that everyone on the program received a few days before departure:

The Ambassador of the United 

States of America

Richard L. Morningstar

requests the pleasure of the

company of 

Ms. Marissa Beseda

at a reception

in honor of the Youth

Leadership Program

Participants

on Friday, July 12, 2013

at 6:30 p.m.

We were all excited. An invitation to the Ambassador's residence? Who else can say they've had that opportunity? We had no idea what to expect. I was thinking something along the lines of a formal, business-y dinner and a quiet meeting with the Ambassador. 

I probably should have just given up on my predictions.

First, we arrived at this old, torn, and grubby-looking painted brick wall. Just dropped off in the middle of this more ghetto area, us students having no clue why we were there. Then slowly we were let through this high gate, having our names checked at the entrance. It felt like I was a part of some exclusive party, and my name was "on the list."

If there was ever a real-life application of the saying "don't judge a book by it's cover," this would be it. The old, mangy wall was hiding this ginormous, extravagant mansion that was bright yellow with white columns and stood in the back of a large courtyard, where people were already gathering. 

We put our personal things inside his front closet and headed out to converse with the other internationally involved students. Then some signal I missed brought everyone into the front room where a dinner of assorted finger foods, both American and Azerbaijani, were being feasted upon. 

So far, pretty chill. Nothing incredibly unexpected. Until a little speech by the Ambassador ended with "Azerbaijani's love to dance" and a DJ came out and started blasting popular music. And before I could fully come to terms with what was happening, we were having a dance party in front of the Ambassador of the United States's residence. Not only that, but he was jamming along with us. This 68 year old man dancing to Nikki Minaj and Lady Gaga. 

That's a sight I never expected to see. 

But it was fun. Occasionally the DJ would play a traditional Azerbaijani song and they would teach us Americans how to dance, which we pretty much failed at but laughed while trying. A conga line, partner dancing, everyone singing the chorus to assorted songs, it was movie-like. 

Myself with two amazing sisters in front of the Ambassador's

Unfortunately, it had to come to an end. My name was called by a security guard, and I said goodbye to all of my new and old friends and headed out the huge gates that separated me from the comfort of familiarity into complete confusion. 

My family wasn't there. Just this strange man and a couple random cars. I looked around awkwardly, wondering what I should do. The man inspected me closely then motioned for me to get in his car. He didn't speak much English. I had the faintest idea he could be the driver that I didn't pay attention to when he drove me and my host mom that morning. So, against all common sense, I got it the car. 

Turned out to be my driver. Whew. But I won't lie, I sent my friend Stephen a "if I don't show up tomorrow I've probably been kidnapped by this strange man please let the adults know" text. 

That situation was amusing in hindsight. 

But what isn't amusing is the confusion I had when I got to my house and this unknown woman ushered me in, with no sign of the rest of my family. 

Yeah, they never came back that night. I didn't figure out until the next day who this lady was. Aunt Leyla, this middle-aged, 100% no English spoken or understood woman who didn't look too comfortable with the situation either. 

But I did figure out from the dinner she motioned me to sit down to that she was an excellent cook. The best food I had on this entire trip was made by her hardworking hands. I really wish I knew the names of these dishes, because then I would recreate them everyday until I could get it to be like how she made it. And then open a restaurant and become super successful. Of course I'd credit her through all my success. 

This picture is awful but all I have. It was this brown rice and meat dish, mixed with assorted vegetables and like all Azerbaijani food, super oily. I dream about this. Honestly. There was also this popular cold drink (or soup) called ovdukh that is a liquidy white yogurt mixed with assorted herbs (for a recipe, go here: <http://www.news.az/recipes/24783> ). I did not acquire the taste buds for this. 

Between this entire plate of rice/meat and the dinner at the Ambassador's, I was stuffed. I motioned this to her, and tried to show my thanks and love of her cooking. I hope she got my message. She wouldn't let me help with dishes or anything, so I went into the other room where the gifts I gave to my family were, picked up some postcards of my home town, and took them to her. 

I believe I was able to communicate the meaning behind each photo, either that or she is also a talented actress, and with my attempts to reach out to her she seemed to get a bit more comfortable with me. I wish I knew at that time who she was! She helped me with the shower and lent me a hairdryer when she saw I didn't dry my hair afterwards (that's kind of a big deal in Azerbaijan, going out with your hair wet. Unacceptable.), and I motioned a good night and a thank you. 

I wish she had been able to communicate what my family had in store for me the next day.