My Narrative Essay

Lara Connell

Mr C. Conway

ENG4U-01

July 21, 2016

Refugees on The Run

Your joints scream out in pain as they ache to keep your body upright. Pure exhaustion begins to take over your body, as you struggle to keep one foot in front of the other. The pulsing thud of your overworked heart fills your ears as your pulmonary valve rushes to supply your blood with the oxygen it craves. You begin to thirst, and your eyes begin to darken. Every movement you take pains you. You wonder why you are doing this, subjecting your body and mind to such excruciating pain and turmoil.  You tell yourself you must keep going, there is no other viable option. Everything depends on this…

For me, this is a story of my experience with running. I am no elite marathoner, nor have I ever even been on my schools track and field team. In my earlier childhood however, and still occasionally, I will take a run.

I immediately regret it. For me, running is rarely enjoyable. Denying your body of oxygen, to the point that breathing becomes difficult and makes continual movement even more difficult is not my idea of enjoyment. Even the aftermath is filled with torture, as your muscles tighten and your limbs begin to feel heavy. In all fairness, this torture is self inflicted. I could choose to be a healthier, active teenager. Yet I choose not to. Unfortunately for some people, this activity is not a choice.

For over 60 million refugees worldwide, they must run. Run from government and groups that are willing to take their lives and everything they own. Run from the continual mass shootings and bombs that litter their lives and countries, destroying everything in its wake. For most refugees they must run away from the basis of their entire lives, taking only the clothes on their back with them.

As privileged Canadians this is hard to imagine. Close you eyes for a second, and imagine that by luck of the draw you had not in fact been born in a peaceful, privileged society such as Canada. You were born instead in an eastern country such as Syria. In your earlier years, you become accustomed to ordinary life; the routines, vast family members and the neighbourhood in which you live becomes home. Yet one day, your entire life takes a turn for the worst as the periodic build up of tension in your country bursts; with it coming unspeakable violence and horrors. Suddenly everything you know and love is at risk. Chaos and confusion fill the streets of the country that you call home. You pinch yourself, drawing scarlet red blood. This cannot possibly be real. It’s a product of your childhood imagination, a terrible, terrible dream that conflicts with all your dreams of reality. But the nature of crisis quickly becomes reality, settling on the lives of those it affects like a suffocating black sheet. Your rights, freedom, feeling of safety, and material possessions are slowly being denied of you.

Yet even as you try to escape your country which has now become as cold and foreign as a stranger; you come to the harsh realization that the rest of the world is not eager to come to your aide. Suddenly you feel like a small ant dying under the glare of a reflected microscope, struggling to survive in your own habitat being targeted by those who hold higher positions. You have no options, no where to turn. So you must run.

Running in of itself, is an art. It requires high levels of endurance, both physically and mentally. Some people, such as myself, have never quite mastered that art due to the lack of necessity. Why run when you can drive a car, or ride the public transit? Refugees do not have that privilege. And while most of them are not physically running, the trials and tribulations that they face can be metaphorically represented through the image of writing running. Much alike to the endurance required while running in the endurance of refugees. They undergo such extreme levels of loss. More impactful however is their loss of lifestyle. They are forced out of their own countries, naked and naïve to the ways of foreign countries. They must endure the unsanitary conditions of the refugee camps, and are often inflicted with disease and malnutrition. If they are lucky they may be granted refugee status in a developed country. Yet this too takes time, much like a marathon does. Each step has purpose; you will never finish the race by cheating. Marathons are individual sports; you only have to worry about yourself. Yet with refugees, they carry the weight of family members on their shoulders and for some they cannot bring their relatives with them. Similar to running, refugees must adapt to their surroundings and test their moral strength. Like a runner, they must carry on.

As a run, I reflect on a variety of things. Mostly the extent of my hatred for the activity. Yet I will now reflect with thoughts of gratitude and appreciation for the country I live in. For all the personal struggles we face collectively as a society, none can compare to the baggage that refugees carry. As a society, we must welcome refugees to our country like marathoners passing the finish line. At long last, they have finished the race, a feat deserving of respect.