Displaced Persons 3 of 3

We were again herded into yet another room where we were given some twine, a few bricks and a large canvas and told we should fashion a tent for our group. Night came, the lights went out and the refugee camp soldiers who were supposed to be there to protect us spent the night shining their lights into our tent. In the tent next to me a man was hauled out, frisked, and accused of being a trouble maker in the camp.

The next day, anyone under sixteen was invited to attend the refugee camp school. Thirty kids lined up. They only had room for six.

Several of the women were told that for the price of their watches and rings, an escape could be arranged. So on the second night, they slipped out under the cover of darkness and followed the man who had taken their jewelry as payment. I found out later that they had been sold into slavery.

Finally, the leader of the Crossroads program slipped off his turban and announced "Ladies and Gentlemen, the simulation is now over." The simulation had put me into a rather peculiar frame of mind that was a combination of powerlessness and dread. I thought that I would have snapped out of it once it was over, but it took me a while for the sensations to ebb away.

We debriefed as a group and talked about what it means to be a displaced person. We also talked about how because Hong Kong appears to outsiders to be all about wealth creation, Hong Kong is sometimes accused of having no soul. Someone pointed out that the ever-increasing scope of the work that goes on at Crossroads proves otherwise. The Hong Kong government actually requested that Crossroads outfit itself with a gift shop and a cafe so that they are equipped to handle tourists.

The Crossroads staff, no longer wearing fatigues or holding semi-automatic weapons, brought out all the watches, rings, and other jewelry in individual ziplock baggies that -unbeknown to us- they'd been carefully stowing as they were surrendered during the simulation.

Finally, before departing, we were instructed to leave our laminated i.d. cards on the table by the door.

I had been carefully gripping mine the whole time.

I didn't want to give it up.

I wanted to keep it as a reminder of what had been a rather transformative hour and a half.

I took one last look at the i.d. card I had been given: "Mohammed Chelab. Age 21. Not married. Farmer. Head injury."

I deposited it on the table with the other cards and exited the building.

-Jack