"A Glimpse into Education in Refugee Camps for Girls"

Living within the boundaries of a refugee camp imparts a viewpoint that's not easy to describe in mere words. Nonetheless, I'll attempt to share a clear glimpse into this world. At the heart of such a life is the unyielding spirit of hope — a fervent wish to someday step beyond the barbed wires and begin anew. For youngsters, this setting is a stark contrast to the world outside: flimsy tents serving as homes, rudimentary schools, and soccer fields where their footballs are makeshift creations of plastic bags and discarded socks.

Such environments often strip away the simple joys that define a typical childhood. Wistful dreams of toys, watching movies, visiting parks, or the giddy excitement of sleepovers remain unfulfilled. The ambition to learn an instrument seems far-fetched when the most musical item in the home is a battery-starved radio. The scarce batteries are conserved with hope, primarily for the 2 PM BBC broadcast, as the elderly eagerly await news that might hint at a better situation back home and a possible return.

In this world without televisions or phones, the children's sense of global connectedness is stifled.

The daily domestic battles are yet another mountain to climb. Parents, frequently unemployed and restricted by the camp's boundaries, face the daunting task of making meager food supplies last. Rations expected to stretch for two weeks might barely last one, forcing many to skip meals. Their repetitive menu consists mainly of maize, white flour pancakes, and on occasion, lentils or beans.

One haunting refrain from my past is the comforting words of my grandmother, reassuringly saying, "we are going back." This sentiment birthed a song, “Dib ba loo noqonaya,” which translates to "we are going back," and a singer even adopted this as a moniker. But two decades on, the melancholy truth is that countless others — friends, relatives, and peers — still wake up to the echoes of this anthem, holding onto the hope of a brighter day.

I wish I could share a photograph from those days, perhaps one with my father. But cameras, let alone selfies or phones, were rarities. I lost my father at the tender age of eight, and with time, his visage has faded from my memory. How precious it would have been to have just one image to remember him by.

Now, settled in Maine, USA, the stark contrasts of my upbringing serve as a constant reminder of my blessings. It propels me to provide the best life possible for my children, rooted in gratitude and resilience.