The Price for Freedom

Published in Cross Cultural Ministries Wollongong newsletter, 2003

By Lynnette Hoffman

Raffi Shamal is singing to his mother, Wasila, who raised him alone from the time he was 8.

He does not know his mother is crying—as she does each morning when she listens to him sing on a dubbed tape after she walks her daughters to school.

Raffi is still in Islamabad, living in a beige apartment with two rooms, down a dusty street next to the United Nations building. It is the same apartment his mother and four siblings shared with two other families before they moved to Wollongong.    

Except for Raffi, the Shamals and the other families have left Pakistan. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees approved their applications for refugee status, meaning they have a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, political opinion or membership of a particular social group, according to the United Nations definition. Now, regardless of what happens in Afghanistan, they can legally stay in Australia.

Raffi's new roommates and the others in the apartment are waiting for review of their own applications, a process that averages more than a year. But Raffi is not waiting and he was not rejected— he never applied.

...

Rumours were rampant in Afghanistan, and like 69.5 percent of Afghanis, the Shamals could not read or write. Based on false advice that children over 14 could not receive refugee status, Raffi,16, agreed to stay in Pakistan. His mother and siblings were desperate for survival and filled with fear that any wrong move would ruin their chances.

Until two years ago they had lived in a small town in Takhar, a province in northern Afghanistan. Orchards and vineyards surrounded their home. But long before the Taliban took control of Kabul in 1996, conflict had become a part of daily life. Compared to others in the drought-plagued nation where few live to the age of 50, the Shamals were well off. They had a car and an apartment provided by the government. But the privileges were in exchange for Raffi's father's service to the country, and when her husband was killed by a missile in 1994, Wasila was left with nothing.

The family moved into her parents’ house and she began work at a nearby factory, sewing uniforms for the Mujahedin soldiers. She earned money to use for emergencies and clothes for herself and the children, but not enough to survive on. For that she relied on her parents.

As conditions deteriorated for the country as a whole, more and more Afghanis began fleeing to neighbouring countries, and among the refugees were Wasila's parents and siblings. When she needed money for food, she sold the furniture in the house.  The children had no chance of an education. Then the Taliban took power and banned women from working— Wasila knew they would not survive much longer there.

*           *           *

The family fled to Pakistan two years ago. They slept on the sidewalk outside the United Nations building the first night, and spent a day in jail because they didn’t have identification. They survived with a combination of free-will donations and begging.

Wasila wanted to give her family more. She wanted her girls to be able to play outside. She wanted to cook food for them that hadn’t been donated. Raffi’s brother wanted to be a doctor. His sister imagined herself as a policewoman. But in Afghanistan and Pakistan those dreams were empty.

The day after they arrived in Islamabad Wasila found someone to fill in the application for them to become refugees. If she included Raffi on the forms, the whole family would likely be rejected. If she did not include him they would never really be happy. But at least they would have a chance.

*           *           *

They had two years to dwell on their decision. There were six interviews; some lasted all day, others lasted a few hours. There were medical tests. There was the police clearance certificate that should have been free, but cost 4000 rupees. And then, after they were finally approved as refugees, there was the wait for the visa to Australia.

They noticed neighbours with children who were 14, 15, 16 and older, who were being accepted as refugees. They assumed the information they had been given was wrong but they were afraid if they told now their application would definitely be rejected. They decided to wait. When they arrived in Australia Wasila would tell the truth, and they would find someone to help bring Raffi over.

*           *           *

But it has not been that easy. Two years after they arrived in Australia, Raffi is still in Pakistan, waiting in long lines, begging for food. Some nights he is beaten by other hungry Afghan refugees, sometimes he does not eat at all.

Raffi’s brothers and sisters speak English fluently and play on their high school sports teams. They have comfortable beds and plenty of opportunities, but they also have guilt.

“When I talk to him on the phone I feel worse,” his mother says. Her son has little money and does not receive assistance. “When I remember his voice I cry all the time. When we knew we were going to Australia we were happy, but we couldn’t feel true happiness. We remember him when we eat, when we do anything.”