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creative writing coursework

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Introduction

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A REFUGEE - Faisal Iqbal 11RJ The brilliant rays of the early morning sunshine penetrating through the single, splintered window in the room abruptly roused me from my deep contemplation. They ricocheted off the bleak walls, adding some colour and optimism to what were otherwise very dismal surroundings. As they danced, scintillating radiantly off the jagged edges of the fragments of glass scattered on the floor, I was flooded with a rare moment of fleeting inner calm - a feeling I had seldom experienced since the conflict broke out in my homeland. I hoisted myself up, and offered my daily prayers, escaping into a spiritual illusion -a fleeting mirage - of contentedness. But it wasn't long before I was faced with the mundane reality I faced every day. Cautious not to wake the sleeping forms of my room-mates, I inched my way to the bathroom we shared. I commenced washing the threadbare garments, each wring of cloth inflaming the multitude of blisters on my calloused hands; yet this was the least of my worries. As I prepared myself for the day ahead, my thoughts were continuously distracted back to those whom I was forced to leave behind. ...read more.

Middle

As the thread weaved in, and out, in, and out again between the interlacing strings of the loom, I realized its action bore an abstract parallel with my own life - I too was in a relentless endeavour to escape, arriving and subsequently being forced to flee in an unceasing attempt to seek a haven of sanctuary. Just as the bird takes its migratory flight to warmer lands to escape the bitter cold, and as the nomad persistently relocates his shelter. I remain blissfully unaware of orders given to our collective group of labourers to "work faster", accompanied by threats of "no food, or water the whole day" in the case of failure to do so. My determination pulls me through what could otherwise be essentially a very monotonous task. I make light of the situation, allowing the innate sequence of colours: 'pink, black, orange, cream, crimson, pink.' to course their way through my hands and onto the loom. The coarse fibres cut into my bruised and calloused hands, but I have developed immunity to the pain, managing to temporarily ignore it as I absorb myself in the intricate work. A bell resounds, indicating the beginning of lunch. ...read more.

Conclusion

The experiences I have gone through as a refugee have in many ways, tainted my previously comparatively innocent and na�ve perspective on life. The warbling siren of a passing police car freezes me dead in my tracks. Paralyzed numb with fear, I am flooded with the same involuntary panic I feel each time I see anything related to police and the law. I was not guilty of harming any other individual, yet my crime is fleeing to another country to escape persecution - only to rediscover it, albeit disguised in a different form. Newspaper headlines blaring out yet another act of terrorism committed by some foreign immigrant reminded me that, beneath the illusory blanket of polite formalities and flowery euphemisms, people such as myself are effectively not wanted here. The vehicle passes as a blur, and as I stare intently into another puddle, I question my identity; over the past months, I have had to keep my identity safely concealed, in fear of ruining my aspirations to build a new identity and life. In the process, I have lost many aspects of my identity, and like my current personality, it remains intricately hidden beneath obscure, forged shadows. To this day, I still strive to recover my true identity, aspiring to relive life as it used to be, on a relentless search to find a place I can truly call home. ...read more.

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