A poem from two different perspectives about refugees who are lost in the numbers, currently living in a camp where they are usually asked for their tent / isobox number when on the receiving end of food, hygiene items and such. I’ve tried to paint the picture from a camp resident and a volunteer (who are wearing name tags).
a number, I have a name
reduced to ones and zero
because of where I came from
so much I lost in the stats
I am a number, I had a house
now I have a number
isolated in a box
boxed in between isos
so many strangers, in this place
for 12 months, I am going crazy
plucking my beard
lining up twice a day, used to be three
they recognise my face, do not ask my name
I am not myself, say the number
been doing this for ages
not much to do beside sleep and eat
a community that’s gated
changes made
how many adults, children & babies
how can they get it wrong
guess this one is new
frustrated but still say thank you
sit at a table, ask the number
daily routine, bring the key
not that important, part of our duty
food is not that good
still try to sell it to everyone
waste, too and so much, too less
our list a mess
organisations don’t share
people lie and take
faced with so many
we should recognise faces
more difficult than it sounds
fool me once, I get it
fool me twice, I should know better
sorry it was picked up
sorry no more juice, bad luck
a community yet not one
people the victims
we apologise when we see that look in their eyes
I know the number of a few, pick up together too
most know my name, can’t say the same
I smile, but feel like I’ve treated you inhumane