So I thought I would come up to my room and write this down in my journal, to try and get my thoughts in order.
But it hasn’t helped much yet. I still feel pretty confused.
Zoe – 2010
The children at the refugee centre recognise me now and look up from their drawings to ask what book we’re going to read today. I’m pleased to see their pictures aren’t only of the brutality and trauma they’ve witnessed: one little girl is busily colouring in her picture of the lazy grasshopper and the hard-working ant, and her sister proudly shows me a drawing she’s done of the Wisest of Cats – an African folk tale I read to them the other day from one of the new books.
They all loved that story. It concerns a very small cat who realises he needs a bigger, stronger friend to look after him. He tries the other animals, one by one, but discovers that the zebra is scared of the lion and the lion is scared of the elephant. Then he finds that the elephant is scared of a man who carries a gun. So the cat goes home with the man, thinking that he has at last found the biggest and strongest friend of all. At the man’s house, though, his wife comes and takes the gun from her husband, giving him a kiss, and the cat realises that the woman must really be the strongest one of all if she can disarm a man so easily. From that day on, the Wisest of Cats stays in the kitchen with the woman because he knows she will keep him safe. When I’d finished reading, I looked up and saw that Madame Habib and some of the other women had been listening too and they were all smiling as I put the book of fables away.
But today I tell them, ‘We’re not going to read a book this afternoon. However, I do have a story to tell you. It’s in here.’
The children gather round, curious to see what’s in the holdall I’m carrying. There are little gasps and murmurs of amazement as I unzip it and bring out Kate’s Bear Paw quilt.
The children touch it carefully, reverentially, stroking the softly padded blocks, tracing the outline of the design. The colours of the quilt glow against the stark grey of the breeze-block walls and the cement floor.
Once everyone’s had a chance to examine it closely, I drape it over the stacks of boxes that form the shelves of our embryonic library and the children settle themselves, cross-legged on the floor, as I begin to tell them the story of the Bear Paw design and the part it played in communicating a difficult, dangerous journey to those who sought to escape fear and oppression and follow their dreams to a better life.
I’ve brought Kate’s book with me too, and I show them some of the other quilting patterns that tell their own stories – Log Cabin, Double Wedding Rings, Flying Geese and the Tree of Life.
As I talk, the women draw closer, to listen and to admire the intricate design of the quilt. Once I’ve drawn to a close, an excited babble breaks out. One of the women unwinds the length of fabric she wears over her hair and shows it to me. Her French is heavily accented and mine is poor, but I understand that she’s explaining the patterns printed on the cloth. They, too, tell a story.
Madame Habib, attracted by the flurry of chatter, comes over to help translate. ‘This lady is from Mali,’ she says. ‘Her people – the Bambara – also have a tradition of using patterns like this to record their culture and their history. She is curious because the design of the quilt is quite similar to some of the motifs on her headcloth.’
The woman nods vigorously and points to a diamond pattern on the cloth. ‘She says the designs are created using mud,’ Madame Habib explains. ‘The brown and black are the everyday colours but this rust-red is special. It signifies her marriage. But her husband was working as a guard, protecting wildlife in the region from poachers, and he was killed in an attack on their home. The house was burned down by the gang. Her husband fought them off long enough for her and her children to escape and hide in the bush. Afterwards, when she returned, there was nothing left of their home. She found her husband’s body in the ashes. She was terrified that the gang would return, and she had nothing and no one left in Mali, so she fled north with her two children, hoping to find a place where they could be safe and she could earn a living. She is still looking and still hoping. And she wears the cloth every day as it ties her to the things she has lost – to her husband and to the land she so loved.’
More of the women show us the patterns on pieces of their clothing, eager to explain the stories behind them. And as they do so they talk and laugh together, reminiscing about their homes and their families, about the traditions they’ve left behind. The children chip in here and there, asking questions about histories and cultures that have become lost along the hard and dangerous paths they’ve been following on the journey towards their dreams.