«Thank God,» she keeps repeating. «No water, no electricity, things are so expensive. Roula is spending long hours at the Health Committee and has become quite exhausted. There are many displaced people, simple people, their women are always pregnant, and their children get sick a lot. They quickly catch bacteria from each other.»
She goes silent, and I am silent in protest. She continues as if she is talking to herself. «But on the other hand… God help them. Ill-educated, poor, needy, and away from home. God protect us from that. But we're also experiencing poverty and need, us too feel like refugees in our own country.»
She lives with her husband in a three-room home; they both suffer from chronic, painful diseases. Also living with them is their divorced daughter and her teenage daughter. On the weekends, their sons arrive from the suburb of the capital and the three rooms become a refuge for more than seven extra people.
My aunt is unique. A loving soft lady who doesn't even throw away a crust of bread; she gives it to the neighbor's chickens. She recycles everything instinctively and with a wisdom that only villagers like herself possess.
My beloved aunt, who instinctively feels for the poor, having experienced need and exile herself. She had to mature early in life, while helping raise her many siblings. She practically disappeared as a person in order to guarantee that they would be successful and distinguished. Later, she raised her own four children. When one of them died at ten, her life changed forever.
My beloved aunt, who would give up her own children's food if someone needed it, is annoyed these days by refugees whom she is unable to help. It's not exactly annoyance – it's that she doesn't know how to respond to their presence.
My aunt speaks to me on the phone like she's talking to herself.
«Don't they know that they shouldn't get pregnant?» she says. «But at least there's someone trying to provide them with a roof, enough food, and medicine. And here we are, no one paying any attention to us. But they're poor people, my niece, treated unjustly, exiled. Misery, on top of exile. Poor people among poor people. The needy among the needy. Their stories would melt even a rock. May God protect us from what is to come. They never let us down when we needed them. But we, we can barely survive ourselves, how can we ever return their favor?»