Migrant Crisis: A Pentagon of Pain

Box
She opened a box
Box of little things
Things which she hid from
From herself, a long time ago
Ago, when she was strong
Strong and brave and full of courage
Courage which took her to a new country
Country with a new job, a new career
Career, which none
None in her family had ever known
Known to her, this was not
Not that she would spend the next twenty
Twenty locked behind a glass pane
Pane which she ignored
Ignored, blinded, and now lost
Lost in trust that was never real
Real, reality, redemption—she
She found again in that box
Box of little things
Things she hid from herself
Herself, a long time ago, she
She has now found

Bells
He says a few verses
I stare at those closed eyes
Faith? Belief? In what exactly?
Why this same routine
Every morning
Washing bronze, serving light
Ringing bells, spinning prayer
Touching red, placing sugar
Every morning
When behind it all
Lies disaster
Disastrous lies
I wait for the next big thing
Soon

Shoe
My shoe! I scream
I’ve lost my shoe
I should be happy
Happy that I’ve found my way
out of this, out of there, anywhere but there
But I’ve lost my shoe
And it’s all I can think about
Because
What can one do with only one shoe
When all they’ve known ever is two?

House
I like to think about the days
In that old house
With the carpeted floors
Shielding bangs of pain
And the naivety of ignorance
Painted onto the walls
And the high ceilings
Offering an illusion for growth
For change
I sometimes miss that bliss
Of hopeful silence
Of thinking there was more
To that old house made of brick and stone
That there was a home
Made of love and love alone

Well
He fell into a well
I reached out my hand
But he swam in defiance
In circles and circles
Always looking up a few
To glance, to see I was there
I cried, I knew
He felt safer
But fatigue is comfort in that well
It always sets in, blink by blink
Year by year
Engulfing
Trapping
Killing
In this cold place they call the American dream
The well is a false hope
I know
Because I once fell in too

From the author: The migrant crisis is not a crisis of migrants: it's a crisis of the unacknowledged suffering along the journey that will always remain. It's the pain refugees and immigrants endure leaving their homeland's familiar struggles, only to face a new flavor of disillusionment, poverty, and exploitation in their new country. There's the heartbreak of family separation, the trauma of domestic violence, and the spiritual loss of purpose as the American dream crumbles. This pentagon of poems, inspired by years of advocacy, resettlement work, and conversations with the community, tries to capture the invisible scars of their journeys--the lifelong burdens they alone carry.

Vineeth Vaidyula is a medical student at ISMMS and is passionate about migrant health advocacy. He finds people's stories endlessly fascinating and loves telling them. In his free time, he likes to dot paint and write poetry. Through service, art, and eventually medicine, Vineeth hopes to explore how internal and external perceptions of identity - citizenship, language, disability, and disease - impact the lives of individuals as they live, learn, work, and play.