My Old Job Needs Me

I used to write press releases for oppressed minorities in parts of the Middle East. I am increasingly frustrated at my inability to do so. I miss my old job, I miss the good people I used to work with, I miss feeling like I was getting the word out to the wider world.

I miss the community, the language, the food, the hospitality, the visits, the beauty of these people. I miss the conversations I had with the women, I miss shucking the pomegranates, even.

How did I end up with one of their bad seeds, that I had to cut myself off from what I loved, to protect my family? I am so very angry with him, his family, right now. I could be doing so much, and I am doing nothing. This is ripping my heart to pieces. I did right to move far away from everyone I know. If I had not, I would have gone back, just for the love of the people.

This makes me rethink the weight I gave to my children’s request that I speak to them in English.

I only knew two families in the community where the women were treated as I was (not that I knew a lot of families or that everyone talked about their treatment). Mine, and one other. Three wives affected, one other had to leave like myself, and the last remaining had nine children, at thirty-five, and probably felt she could not survive without a husband. Only I was not born into the community, but married into it.

What did I do all this refugee activism for, to just sit by, now, when all this is going on. He has tied my hands. No hands should be tied, right now. All helping hands should be free to do so. I don’t even have international satellite. I am watching clips off of FB. Pathetic.


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