take your place in the place of forced migrants those are refugees and name the first three emotions that come to your mind
Answers
Explanation:
This is not a sob story. But the tears came anyhow. They crept up on me at the 70th birthday party of a friend a few years back. We were celebrating in a hotel ballroom in Letchworth in Hertfordshire and I had struck up a conversation with distant acquaintance – a woman I had met only a few times before and have not met since. We talked about the primary school she worked at and the secondary school I went to, which were just five minutes’ walk apart in nearby Stevenage– both had declined – and about the local council and football team. She asked me when I was going back to New York, where I’d been living for seven years at that point, and I told her, the next afternoon.
“You’re so lucky,” she said. “You’ve done so well for yourself. Your mum would be so proud.”
And that was when my eyes started welling up. Now it could have been any number of triggers – alcohol, jet lag or the mention of my mother, who died decades ago. But what really upset me was realising that in this town, people I wasn’t even particularly close to knew me in a way that nobody else would. They knew place names that no one else in my regular life (apart from my brothers) knew. And yes, they not only knew my mother but they knew me when I had a mother.
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The following day I would fly to a place where people knew a version of me where very little of any of this applied. My friends in New York knew I had brothers and had lost my mother. They knew I grew up working class in a town near London. The rest was footnotes – too much information for transient people, including myself who would soon move to Chicago, who were travelling light.
In short, I cried for bits of my life that had been lost. Not discarded; but atrophied. Huge, formative parts of my childhood and youth that I could no longer explain because you would really have had to have been there but without which I didn’t make much sense.
Migration involves loss. Even when you’re privileged, as I am, and move of your own free will, as I did, you feel it. Migrants, almost by definition, move with the future in mind. But their journeys inevitably involve excising part of their past. It’s not workers who emigrate but people. And whenever they move they leave part of themselves behind. Efforts to reclaim that which has been lost result in something more than nostalgia but, if you’re lucky, less than exile. And the losses keep coming. Funerals, christenings, graduations and weddings missed – milestones you couldn’t make because your life is elsewhere.
If you’re not lucky then your departure was forced by poverty, war or environmental disaster – or all three – and your destination is not of your choosing but merely where you could get to or where you were put. In that case the loss is bound to be all the more keen and painful.
Answer:
first of all after looking at the refugees, i would feel bad and like to help them. i would even be angry over the government who could not provide proper shelter to them.
but yet i would feel scared and out of place there as i would be new and had to face many types of people.
hope it helps you.