Sapphire blue,
her headscarf gathers on her back
against an endless azure sky
pushed there to keep dry,
in relief, as she leans above
the small grey basin
set into crimson sand
footsteps outside a tiny kitchen
She is Somali
She is Cook
every meal for every person
lentils, rice, kale, ugali, chapatti
goat stew some days
in the agency compound
I find a place to sit outside near her kitchen
eat some chapatti
sun sets and like the air, my body
cools down in deep breaths,
lime-green the linen skirt
covering my ankles, while
a maroon buttoned-up shirt
covers my arms
my abundance of auburn hair is tied-up
over a face that can’t mask its whiteness,
the starkness of it, or cloak
the hint of a self-conscious blush
surfacing
Cook moves from kitchen to basin
washing things
in a plastic orange tub while
I wonder about this woman’s story
too shy to ask about
mothers and children who walk here
through relentless seas of sand,
shifting always shifting with
borders to cross
drought instead of water
guns instead of food
refugees line up at the gate
babies under mothers’
vibrant garments
flowing over
babies who don’t cry
here blood-red sand
imprints footprints the winds blow away
like lives as temporary as
a mother trekking with a baby on her back
a wooden cart loaded down with twigs
a boney boy driving a boney donkey
while a United Nations van roars past
and kicks up sand that shrouds a woman
wrapped in black fabric
balancing a white container on her head
already passing through sprawls of tent dwellings
of bleached cloth, sticks, mud bricks
and a displaced generation already born
borne refugee
sitting face-to-face, Cook sees
I eat only the chapatti
leaving the whiteness of the plate
to show through, circular and empty,
among mounds of plenty
privileged stranger, me,
the Cook frowns – hurrumph
and her bittersweet eyes
burnt into my soul
later I watch Cook walking toward me
white plate in her hand
a yellow curve teetering there
a divine gift – a Kenyan banana – mmmmm
the indigo sky cracks a smile…
the new crescent moon lying on its back
sighs,
you are welcome
Dr. Karen Meyer
I say, it’s hot
me a visitor
from the bitter cold
he says, we adapt
five of us find shade
sit in a circle
these black metal chairs
look foreign planted
in the red sand
so do I
above us a chorus of birds
joins our talk
stories between teachers
under the acacia tree
hot and heavy, a breeze
at least brings breath
back to my body
I ask, what’s it like
being teacher
inside a refugee camp?
the tall sturdy Ethiopian
his deep tender voice
fills in a picture
teaching children
a hundred at a time while
their promising tongues
mimic English
the young Somali man
a teacher after high school
arrived a toddler
to this bleak desert
he remembers still
being handed down to the sand
from the NGO truck
the high school teacher
says, I wanted
to be a doctor
not a teacher
the other says, one textbook
for twenty kids
we memorize here
hard to tell
these teacher stories
from the bitter hot
under the acacia tree
Dr. Karen Meyer
no electricity no library no Google
so many phases
to get used to the methods of learning
we share learn together put all our life
in the learning
help the guys who follow pass it on like a train
we memorize cram English ask the Watchman
if we can stay
in the light back at school no sleep tonight
we imagine what we’ve never experienced
between the gaps
see it back in our heads at the national exam
we drink tea at Stress Corner or the market
tell stories laugh
talk about Somali politics life in the camps
Somali culture is about sharing
whatever we have
somebody at the market will tutor will pay for tea
no going west no going east we stay
or carry a gun
we wait for the opportunity to go
sacrifice persistence deny the fact of refugee
manage the stress
so tomorrow I’ll be someone else not the same as yesterday
Dr. Karen Meyer
I asked a question
of her
silence spilled
in a roar
swallowed the room
her eyes avoided looks
not knowing
too deep to be hushed
she came no more
i was left
holding her pain my story
what more could i ask?
i am teacher
Dr. Karen Meyer
there are places
at the ends of the world
fragile frayed fringes
long since forgotten
I see desert
Earth’s dusty brink
bone dry sky
so blue
burns my pale skin
I see footprints
watched over
burnt-red sand
scarves flowing
in color
bodies exiled
under scrubby green
acacia trees
I see litter
hollow plastic bottles
endure like sand
tall marabou storks
rummage pits and piles
their orange-red
vulture faces
gawk back
I see the mirage
of home
decades past
I see living colors
of hope
smile back
what say you at the fringe?
Dr. Karen Meyer
Imagine Hamlet to be…an overdressed soliloquy.
His ramble to an unbearable stage turned comedy.
Yes, yes, comedy! Such irony in the red sand.
On our simple stage, a headmaster’s office. Humble despite its clutter piled high, schedules taped on walls, chair, tall and tired, jabbers in squeaks. And there the Danish Prince sits lost on the busy desk. Inside a box. Glossy cover photo. Skull in hand. His DVD mission shelved. There is no TV in the desert school, no player, only scant resources. One plug arrived only a month ago to the red sand.
Alas, a clever plan strikes the boyish, leggy headmaster. Black shoes shined but sandy still. Brilliant at making do. Sends some boys on a quest milestones away.
“Bring us that big NGO TV.”
A pilgrimage heaven will direct.
The five boys chattering above desert silence trek back across the sand, embracing the mighty TV with all their might, like an entourage around a king. A blue-blooded wail out of the player on top startles the boys,
“Keep it moving, my word it’s hot!”
Long and sleek, the black chord dragging behind leaves a mysterious sinuous trail in the red sand, like a sly ghostly snake.
Back at the school a buzz of voices await Hamlet’s arrival. Minds gorged on his words. Memorized scenes. Still the meaning between the lines staggers in silence.
Fast forward… Finally enter Hamlet on the wide outdated screen in his puffy soliloquy. Blue tights tinged in red dust worn thin by the desert. He faces a crowd of curious eyes. Desperate with imagination.
Mission accomplished! And so it ends here in Dadaab. Tragedy averted.
The audience now wiser to the slings and arrows Hamlet brought to this refuge called school. And given pause, they see something is rotten somewhere else in the world (with its ensemble of shady characters)
One switch and the drama fades. The headmaster, prompt and astute, wearing a serous smile, reminds his students: the sea of troubles their flesh belongs to will ne’re end in tragedy
Bravo! For the love of Shakespeare here in the red sand.
Dr. Karen Meyer
I see desert
sky burnt red
sand dry blue
relentless as blood lines
seeking scrubby shade
under the acacia
figures, scarves, veils
gust and flutters,
talking, walking
people always walking
donkeys dawdle by
unhitched while
white goats
keep company
keep moving
voices, tangles, canopy
mingling shanties
fluted iron and wood
plastic scraps in gaps
UN blue on white
fabrics, brash, flower
clash on lines
goat, camel, dangling raw
rugs bear tuber
hawkers hawk
people talk
politics on mats
always drinking tea
I see desert alive
Dr. Karen Meyer
Maxaa geed ugu abuuri
saxarahaan?
Why plant a tree
in this desert?
whispers Fatima
her brown hands
dusty with red sand
the cloth, secure
the cloth stretches tight
across tall sticks
planted in sand
Who will carry
my tree its water?
when we leave
go back home
when it is safe
Abdi hears his mother
leaps out the opening
alight to daybreak
his shadow rouses
the faded cloth
like a spirited sapling
Hooyo, Mamma, Hooyo
geed, geed, tree tree
Fatima joins, sings
his English sounds
reaches for a tiny hand
sand, still cool
to bare feet
sends off their footprints
to school
Dr. Karen Meyer