REFUGEES

Dan Yokum

Eric entered the village of Marpha, certain he had reached somewhere truly magical. The dirt and cobble of the wide path transitioned to an ancient walkway made of flat stone rectangles of various sizes and formats. On his right was a stone wall that held a long line of prayer wheels and he carefully touched each one with his index finger, flicking it into a gentle spin. He marveled at the white-washed stacked stone buildings, tall and tight against the walkway, the elaborate roof overhangs, and the doors and windows trimmed with reddish wood. He greeted each person he met with a slight bow, palms together at his chest, and usually received the same in return. He moved through the length of the village and, when the buildings ended, when the stone walkway turned back to dirt, he touched a new wall of prayer wheels.

A few hundred yards past the buildings, he veered onto a small steep side trail and, in minutes found a perch high enough above the village that he could examine the elaborate roofs, also constructed from flat stones. He looked into the distance, and although from where he sat, he couldn’t see the nearby peaks, two of Nepal’s giants, Dhaulagiri behind and Annapurna hidden in clouds and mountains in front of him, just knowing they were out there excited him. He had made the trek from Pokhara in only four days instead of the usual six and thought he would stay in Marpha a few days longer than he’d planned, hoping it might be a distraction from the endless hum of his rumbling thoughts.

Although it was late in the day, he wasn’t concerned that he hadn’t eaten and didn’t know where he would spend the night. Something would work out, it always did. He had a jar filled with cold rice and lentils from earlier in the day and could always sleep outside in one of the surrounding fields.

He had done that the night before, not so much by choice, but because he had gotten mixed in with a large Spanish expedition heading to Annapurna who had taken over any inside places to sleep in the small village he had stopped at. He had ended up on the floor of a smoky room with about twenty of the Spanish plus a dozen or so trekkers, shoulder to shoulder, lights out early, the door locked with a wooden bar.

Lying next to him was an itinerant holy man (sadhu) from India who Eric had walked with for a few hours and who was headed to a distant Hindu holy shrine high up in the clouds where, he said, he was going to have a conversation with the god, Shiva. Eric had almost argued with the building’s Nepali owner who had objected to an Indian sadhu with no money mooching off him, telling him to sleep outside. Instead Eric had paid double for the sadhu and hinted that, if it wasn’t okay, he would leave and talk many of the others into also leaving.

Before the room went dark, the sadhu had produced a chillum, ground a little hashish into it, took a hit, and handed it to Eric, who did the same. When Eric passed it back, the sadhu put up his hand and said, “No, no. A little bit, mind control. Too much, no mind control. But have more if you want.” For Eric, mind control was often an elusive concept and he’d taken two more large hits which, after the lights went out, he dearly regretted. He’d fallen asleep for a few hours, woken in a claustrophobic panic, and crawled over sleeping grumpy bodies to the barred door. After a few loud minutes, fumbling in the dark to get it open, he’d rolled out his sleeping bag in the widest open space he could blessedly imagine and fallen into a deep sleep, comforted by the distant howling of large beasts.

He would try to sleep inside this night, find one of the bed, dinner, and breakfast guesthouses that were not much more than a few rooms in somebody’s home. But first he needed to clean himself up, at least a little bit. He walked to the nearby river that had traced much of the trek, took off his shirt, laid flat on the bank, and dunked as much of his upper body as he could into the icy flow. He soaped up his chest, scraggly-bearded face, and hair—glad that he had chopped most of it off when he’d first arrived in Nepal—and dunked again.

He headed back to the village, and when he reached the prayer wheels, a boy about ten years old rushed up to him, took his hand and said in passable English, “You come with me and I will take you to the best restaurant and hotel.”

Eric gently squeezed the boy’s hand and said. “Thank you, my little man.”

The boy led him back down the main walkway, through one of the wooden doors, and into a small room with a couch and a desk.

A man rushed in, introduced himself as Sharma, and said, “We have one bed in the room with others. That okay?” He nearly danced with excitement.

“Yes, that’s fine,” Eric said.

“All other rooms are taken tonight. We have,” he searched for the English word, “reunion.”

“Is it Tibetans?” Eric asked.

“Yes. Yes. Two brothers. One living here and one only now escaping from Tibet, first time together in many years.”

“That’s wonderful,” Eric said.

“Very happy. We celebrate tonight. Come. I will take you to the room.”

They walked down a short hall with two doors on either side. Sharma knocked on one and said, “Hello, hello,” and a young Western man opened it.

“Hello,” Sharma said. “I have one more for your room. Now it’s full and will be cheaper.”

“Oh, sure, thank you,” the man said. He pointed to an empty bed and said to Eric, “Come on in. Your space is right over there.”

Eric laid his pack on the bed. Two others, a young man and a woman, sat close together on another bed. Eric introduced himself. “My name’s Eric. Eric Hoffman.”

The woman said, “I’m Gisella and this is Hans,” and the one who answered the door said, “I’m Fritz.” They all appeared to be about Eric’s age, mid-twenties, and even without the names, he would have known by the accents that they were German. That was fine with him because his experience so far with German travelers was that they were generally less ostentatious, less flaunting, more reserved, attributes many of his fellow Americans could not claim. Fritz and Gisella were dressed like Eric, cotton drawstring pants and loose tops, and Hans wore jeans and a tee-shirt. Eric had dressed that way when he’d first arrived in South Asia, wanting to differentiate himself from the hordes of young hippy tourists—maybe Hans was doing the same— but eventually gave in to comfort.

He said, “I hear there is going to be a reunion tonight. Two Tibetan brothers.”

“One of them is already here,” Gisella said. “Next door. It will probably be quite a party.”

“I hope they’re not too loud,” Hans said. “I’d like to get some sleep.”

They sat on the beds and shared where they’d recently traveled, where they were going next, their most and least favorite places. There was a tension among the three, especially between Fritz and Hans. Fritz—outgoing, friendly—liked to talk, and Hans was mostly quiet. Gisella spoke a little but seemed to carefully choose her words, as if she was keeping the peace between them. Gisella and Hans were obviously a couple, sitting close, his hand on top of hers. For a moment, Eric thought Fritz might jealous of Hans, wanted Gisella for himself. But then he noticed the physical similarities they shared: the same hazel eyes, thick dark brown hair—Fritz’s was longer than Gisella’s—and wide faces.

“Are you two related?” he asked

“My little sister,” Fritz said and he and Gisella both showed toothy grins.

“My fiancé,” Hans said and put his arm around her, pulling her closer.

After a half-hour, Hans said he was hungry and they should find food. They went out to the stone walkway and the same young boy from earlier was there.

“Someplace to eat?” Eric asked.

“Yes, you come. Follow me,” the boy said.

No sign marked the eatery, only another door, and the boy led them into a simple room furnished with two tables, each with four plain wooden chairs. And no other customers. A woman sitting on a stool in the corner hopped up when they entered and said, “Five rupees each. I will bring food and to drink.” She came back a few minutes later with plates of rice and lentils with a few potato pieces mixed in. She left and came back again with four glasses and a large bottle of chang (barley beer). The food was plain but warm and filling, and with a few glasses of chang, Eric felt pretty good, happy to be there. The others, not so much.

Hans mumbled, “I am so sick of this food. This is not good.” Gisella nodded in agreement and Eric and Fritz didn’t comment. The three switched to German and Eric could pick up bits of the conversation—more complaining.

They finished eating and bought two more bottles of chang to bring back to their room. When they passed through the door to their lodging, the little reception room could barely fit them. Sharma, the two Tibetan brothers, and two other young Tibetan men stood huddled together, laughing, hugging, crying, and after a small attempt at introductions, Sharma gave up and subtly motioned Eric and the Germans toward the hallway.

“This is going to be a rough night,” Gisella said.

And it was. They each found a cup in their packs and filled them with the chang.

After the first round, Fritz launched into a lecture about why the Tibetan refugee situation had recently worsened in Nepal. He brought up the 1972 meetings two years earlier with Nixon and Mao, the awkward position it put Nepal in, and how the CIA had abandoned the Tibetan freedom fighters because they were no longer necessary to further the Americans’ greater interests. Eric knew all this, had read about it, followed the news, and voiced his own increasingly drunk agreement. Then Hans sat up, tall and skinny, pulled his long stringy hair away from his thin face, focused his eyes on Eric and said, “You see, everybody likes to call the Germans the bad people but you Americans certainly do your share of trouble.”

Eric stared down at the floor and nodded slightly. Hans’ words bothered him and he wasn’t sure why. Hans bothered him. He looked up and Gisella subtly caught his eye, gave her head a nearly invisible shake, and as he knew she wanted, he let his annoyance pass. Again, Fritz took over the conversation, this time with goofy, funny stories that went on and on about his and Gisella’s childhood.

Eventually, the Germans passed out and Eric followed, drifting into a half-sleep space where the Tibetan noise next door created a series of happy flowing dreams. Until the sound of a fist banging on the wall and loud German accented English shattered them. “It’s time to stop! We’re trying to sleep over here!”

“What the hell?” Eric bolted up and turned to Hans at the wall. “What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s too late. We need to sleep. We paid for this room.”

They all sat up. Eric said, “What, a few Deutchmarks? And that entitles you to something?” He amped up his volume, couldn’t stop, “These are refugees. They’ve been separated by the Chinese and most of their relatives were probably…” He stopped and then, much quieter, just above a whisper, a nasty hiss, he had to say it, “I would think you, of all people, would understand that.” He laid back down and turned over with his back to them.

For the next few minutes the Germans argued in their own language, mostly Fritz and Hans, with Gisella desperately trying to intervene. Eric listened, picking up enough by the tones and even many of the words, the gist of what they were saying. Finally, he’d had enough and he sat up again, got their full attention and said in his mother’s Yiddish, “I can understand you,” knowing that the translation was close enough that they would, in fact, know what he was saying.

Eric slept a few hours and, when he woke, saw that Fritz was gone and Gisella and Hans were still asleep. He quickly packed his things and left the room. He had planned on hiking the few hours to Jomosom, the end of the trek, and then coming back and spending another night in Marpha, but instead went the other direction back toward Pokhara. He passed the prayer wheels on the edge of the village and there was Fritz, blocking his way.

“Morning,” Eric said and walked around him.

“Wait. Please,” Fritz pleaded.

“What?” Eric stopped, turned around.

“Why are you leaving so soon? I thought we would go to Jomosom today.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Fritz glared. “So where did the Yiddish come from? Who experienced the German hell?”

Eric didn’t answer.

“Then I’m betting on your mother.”

Eric’s shock showed.

“You shouldn’t be surprised at my astuteness. It’s not magic. I’ve heard these things my whole life and I’m sorry for whatever it is your family experienced. But something else you might think about. You know nothing about my family, and just because we are German doesn’t mean we didn’t have our own share of that hell.”

Fritz looked like he was about to cry.

Eric mumbled that he was sorry, too, and hurried away on the path.

He raced back to Pokhara, a frantic three days nearly running on the trail, the next day took a bus to Kathmandu, and the day after, a direct flight to New Delhi.

The early Spring warmth had already descended on the city, and he treated himself to a nice hotel room with air-conditioning. He spent the next day walking around, seeing the sights, but he couldn’t shake the grey feeling that had been growing since he’d left Marpha, a new level of unease taking on a bigger life. At first, he tried to blame the heat, the dirty city, the noise, but he knew inside what was bringing it on, no mystery there: the Germans, the refugees, that whole incident. It wasn’t as if he’d never experienced these feelings before, they’d always played inside him as background noise and, yes, periodically the volume went way up, a few times loud enough to break glass. Still, he’d always made it through. His problem at that moment in that setting was a growing awareness of the possibility that no amount of distraction or running was going to make it stop.

Thank the Gods for Choden. Choden—the reason he’d come to South Asia in the first place. He would leave right away for Mussoorie, where Choden’s relatives lived, where he was not scheduled to arrive for another week. He lay in bed that night, restless, squirming, clinging to the hope that Choden would already be there and that he would have some kind of knowledge, some wisdom, that could help him feel better. The next morning, he left early and began the journey, first by train and then by bus, into the foothills of India’s eastern Himalayas.

Eric and Choden had been corresponding for nearly two years, each sending a letter once a month. Eric had begun the relationship by responding to a request in a newsletter, put out by a Buddhist organization he was involved with, to help fund the education of Tibetan monks in training. The asking donation was fifteen dollars a month, such a small amount to Eric that he gladly offered it and slowly developed what he regarded as a meaningful relationship. Although Eric was not a devoted Buddhist practitioner, Choden’s education always fascinated him, and he often asked questions about what he had read in his own English translations of the texts Choden studied. And Eric got to participate in Choden’s slow but steady mastery of written English.

The bus brought Eric to Mussoorie, and in the late afternoon when he exited onto the main street, he felt a powerful sense of relief. The heat and noise had disappeared and he was certain he was going to figure out new strategies to settle himself. He had no idea if he was expected to stay somewhere with Choden or what other arrangements there might be so he checked into another hotel—this time a sparse and simple affair—sprawled out on the metal framed bed, and fell asleep for an hour. When he woke, he went out to find the address Choden had sent him.

Mussoorie didn’t share Marpha’s wildness but, with its steep streets, ancient architecture, and more stunning mountain views, was still spectacular. It was perfect, he thought, even with the growing influx of those pouring in who were escaping the heat of the Indian plains. He approached a policeman, showed him the slip of paper he’d scrawled the address on and was directed to a side road that led to a group of small brick and mud houses a few hundred yards outside of the town. He caught the attention of two older Tibetan women standing outside one of the houses and repeated the address to them as a question. At first, they shook their heads like they didn’t understand but, when he asked, “Choden? Is Choden here?” they both grinned, animated, and one said, “Choden tomorrow. Tashi tomorrow.”

Tashi. Who was that? He had no idea.

He thanked the women, and walked back into town. He had read about a trail leading out of the north end and further into the mountains that eventually ended with a wide view of the southern panorama. He found the trailhead and walked hard and fast until he came to a small cliff with a dramatic view of some distant foothills. The effect calmed him, yet the unease was still there, even if only a slight rattle.

He sat on a flat rock, closed his eyes and breathed in and out like he’d been taught, mentally keeping his attention on each breath. However, he ignored the part of the instruction that suggested he stay present with whatever emotion arose, to be with what is. He wanted to avoid all that, only hoping to find calm and safety.

The next morning, as he walked down the street looking for somewhere to eat breakfast, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around and there he was, a young Tibetan man dressed in a traditional maroon monk’s robe, hair cut short. “Choden?”

“Yes, yes! So, you are Eric.”

“Yes. I am.”

Eric was surprised at how short Choden was, tiny actually, and how young he looked. Delicate, maybe even vulnerable. Next to him stood another young man, also Tibetan, a full six or eight inches taller, at least a few years older, longish straight black hair, handsome, confident, wearing jeans, a tee-shirt, sneakers. He extended his hand, which Eric took, and said, “My name is Tashi. I’m Choden’s cousin.” Another surprise, his accent was a mix but more British than anything else.

Choden said, “When I am not doing my studies, I always come here to stay with his family. Aunt, uncle, cousins.”

But no parents. Of course. Eric knew that.

Tashi said, “Should we go get some tea to celebrate you being here?”

“Yes, we go,” Choden said. “But I will pay. For our guest.”

Eric was about to object but caught himself. This would surely bring Choden great pleasure to “treat” his guest.

They sat at a table outside a small shop, and an Indian waiter brought them cups of chai in clay mugs and and a plate of sweets. Choden reached into an inside pocket in his robe, took out a few rupee bills, and handed them to the waiter. Then he turned to Eric, bowed his head slightly and said, “Thank you.”

Eric was confused for a moment, then said, “Oh, yes. You’re welcome. For everything.”

They spent the rest of the morning walking on trails outside the town, stopping to look at the views or to sit and talk. Tashi often walked ahead or wondered off when they were sitting so Choden and Eric could have time to chat. They talked about Eric’s travels and Choden’s schooling. Choden also said that Tashi was involved with refugee resettlement in India, helping the younger ones adjust to their new lives. And deal with what happened to their old lives? Eric wondered about that but didn’t ask.

Later in the day, they went back to the same group of houses just outside the town that Eric had gone to the day before. This time it was a festive occasion, friends and relatives gathered outside, a welcoming of sorts for him. Some of the elders sat in chairs and the rest on blankets on the ground. Tashi’s father tried his little bit of English and laughed when it emerged, slightly ridiculous. His mother came out of the tiny house with a large pot and plates, filled the plates with a version of the usual rice and lentils, and insisted Eric be served first. He hadn’t had much meat in the last year and none in the last few months and there were a few sizable chunks of mutton mixed in that he would have preferred not to eat. However, in this setting with these people, he knew to graciously consume it and enjoy it. When everyone finished eating and the plates were taken away, a large jar of chang appeared and glasses were passed around. Someone handed Eric one and he quickly drank half of it down but caught himself and slowly sipped the rest. He looked around at the whole group and had a few moments of contentment, happiness even. He liked these people.

When the gathering began to disperse, Tashi said to Eric, “Choden needs some time to talk to my parents about some things but he’s too polite to ask you. Maybe you and I could go somewhere.”

“Yeah, sure.”

They walked around the town a bit and decided on another tea stop. When the tea was served, Tashi said, “You’ve been so helpful to Choden. When he first got here, things weren’t so good and nobody had any money. What you send has allowed him to do his training.”

“I guess I wasn’t aware that it made that much difference,” Eric said. “I’m glad it’s helped that much.”

They were quiet for a few moments and then Eric asked, “What was it like when Choden first got here? Can I ask that? I’m wondering about all of you but, if that’s rude…”

“No, no. It’s not rude at all. Not to me, anyway. These stories need to be told. That’s why I’ve learned to speak English. That’s why…” There was a flash of anguish, just a hint. “That’s why I do what I do. People need help here. We need money, we need housing, we need teachers for the young ones. And English is the language that the most people understand. So, I made sure I learned it well. My story, yes, it’s bad. My family made it across. We lost a few friends on the trip but we were blessed in most ways. Choden didn’t get here until a few years later. He was with a friend of his parents. And his parents, my aunt and uncle…”

“I understand.”

They sat for another hour, sometimes silent, sometimes sharing. Eventually Eric asked, “Did you ever consider becoming a monk like Choden?”

“Not really. Maybe briefly. I know the teachings. It was a big part of my upbringing and always will be. And I learn a lot from Choden when he’s here. But what I’m doing now, this is my work.”

“And Choden?”

“He’s doing what he needs to do,” Tashi said.

That night Eric lay in his hotel bed, absorbing the day, afraid he would never be able to fall asleep. His room was on the first floor facing the street and it was early enough that the tourists were still out making their noise. He didn’t mind it, thankful for the humanity so close by. Eventually he drifted off, and a few hours later, woke unsettled again. The streets lay quiet and the thoughts poured in.

He remembered when he was young, looking for something in his father’s home office and finding a magazine in one of the drawers, like it was hidden from somebody—and it was easy to figure out who that would be. It was 1962, shortly after the Israelis captured Hitler’s man, Adolf Eichmann, and put him on trial, and the lead article was one of the accounts. It became Eric’s introduction to the power of the under-current that had always been so influential in his life. He read some of it, returned it to the drawer, and came back to it a few more times when his parents weren’t around. He couldn’t leave it, needed more, needed to understand, and he scoured the public library until he found another history detailing the worst of it. He was just thirteen and he snuck the book into his room and hid it under his mattress like it was his first Playboy, except that it was the far opposite of sexy, of desire, of anything related to something a young teen would aspire to experience. It described a tightly closed family subject—not a secret because it was too unwieldy to be hidden away in a desk drawer or shoved under a bed—only something that was never to be discussed.

He knew his father had stayed on after the war ended, helping to reconstruct the postwar world, had met his mother, married her and brought her back to America. However, from her side of the family there were no aunts or uncles, no grandparents, no cousins, not even friends. Was she a survivor or a refugee? Maybe both. Or maybe the distinction didn’t matter because, whatever she was, the collective terror continued to live inside her. He had come to think of six million as the wrong number, not because it was too large or not real at all like the deniers claimed, but because it was not large enough. It didn’t nearly account for all the ones like his mother who had somehow got away, whose hearts still beat, whose breath still moved, but whose souls were crushed and maimed and who eventually had to end their lives and join the others.

He finally slept, and when he woke, his first thought was that he needed to get moving, leave all this behind. But he didn’t. He did a quick cleanup and nearly ran to Choden’s parents’ house. This time Tashi was not there and he asked Choden—nearly insisted—that they go for tea and sweets again. This time it was his turn to pay.

They literally talked about the weather for a minute and then Eric asked, “How do you live with it? Your own suffering?” As soon as he spoke, he regretted it. Why would he ask such a loaded question? “I’m sorry. That’s not my business.”

Choden responded gently, “It is okay,” and, for the next half hour, in his slightly broken English, launched into a lesson on the basics of his study: The Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path, impermanence, compassion, kindness, and much more. Eric was familiar with most of it, had studied it himself, and was delighted to hear it from Choden’s voice, giving it deeper meaning.

Choden paused and then took it much further. “There are stories I hear about monks, lamas, the old ones who are hurt by Chinese, terrible things. And they only have compassion for the ones who do the hurt. They want to help those who are so lost that they do the hurt.”

Eric did not expect this. It bothered him, made him feel sick. It showed.

Choden looked down at the floor. “Now my turn to say sorry.”

Eric caught himself. “No, no, it’s all right. I guess it’s like Jesus on the cross saying, “Forgive them Lord for they know not what they do.”

Choden smiled, his young face becoming sweet, kind, almost angelic, but it quickly passed to sadness and he said, “Yes. But very difficult, very, very difficult to have that.”

Impossible to have that, Eric thought.

They sat quietly, sipping the remains of their tea.

“Where do you go next when you leave here?” Choden asked.

“I don’t know.” He had no idea.

“Tashi wants me to ask you. Thinks I will have better luck.”

“What?” Eric shook his head.

“Tashi needs help. Wants a volunteer. Can you?”

Again, unexpected. Eric stared down at the table and, when he looked back up, Choden met his gaze. The vulnerability was gone. Still gentle, kind, but determined, forceful.

“Stay here. Become quiet. Become happy. It is good for Tashi. It is good for you.”

Emotions cycled through Eric: anger, panic, finally settling on the relief he craved.

“I…yes, yes, I will stay,” he said. “I will try to stay.”