Ten-year-old Fatuma covered her head with her arms, pressing her back against the hard wood of the closet. Her pounding heart beat against her chest. Thick blankets crushed her on both sides, muffling the resounding booms and crackles that sent her running here.
Her head swirled with confusion as her mind flashed back to the civil war she recently escaped in her own country of Liberia. She thought of the gunfire, loud as thunder that resulted in death all around her. She felt black fear while looking down the barrel of the rifle that was pointed at her head. The desperation of leaving her home, all she had, stealthily creeping through the jungle, week after week, always hiding, always terrified.
She thought she had escaped the war, but it had followed her here. She whispered that Bible verse that had calmed her so many times in the past. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Fervently she whispered, “Jesus. Help me now. I need you.”
Light flooded the closet as the door opened. Fatuma looked up at the concerned face of her father. His comforting arms reached out to pick her up and hold her tight. “It’s alright, Baby, it’s alright. Those are just fireworks, not guns. We’re safe here in America. I promise. Those are noises of people having fun for a holiday they have here called ‘the Fourth of July.’ Those noises can’t hurt you.” Her pounding heart slowed. Her clenched fists relaxed.
Behind him, she saw Mert, the white-haired lady who met them at the airport just two days ago when they first arrived in America. Her dad called her their “sponsor,” and she was helping them get settled in their new country. Mert’s closet had been her hiding place.
Later, after a quick trip to town, Mert reappeared with a white plastic bag. She handed Fatuma a small yellow box filled with tiny white paper lumps. She showed her how to throw them to the ground where they each emitted a tiny snap. She called them “Pop-Its.”
Mert gave her father matches to light the end of a pink cylinder the size of his little finger. The cylinder spun around and around while buzzing and shooting out sparks in a brilliant bouncing circle. At first, Fatuma jumped back with a startled gasp and covered her ears. Then her hands slowly dropped to her side as she stared fascinated at the flashing, swirling colors. Mert called it a “Ground Flower.”
Her father lit another one, a “Killer Bee.” The fountains of fiery sparks in burning colors of red, gold, and green enchanted her, but she covered her ears during the shrill whistles. Then she laughed at the little paper hen that shot fiery eggs out its backside.
Later, as she curled up in her unfamiliar bed, she prayed, “Thank You, God, for bringing me into this safe and beautiful country, America.”
This is a true story, though I filled in a few details. Mert was my mother, and she helped hundreds of refugees settle into their homes, get jobs, sign up their kids for school, and learn English. The girl I call “Fatuma” is now a young lady going to college and preparing for her bright future here in America.
