Notes from a Refugee

Notes from a Refugee

by Mandi Steinberg (nee Burke)

As the sun rises over Tel Aviv my husband's just come in to the computer room to ask me "what the hell" I'm doing. I tell him that I'm visiting the graves at Warren Hills. He gives me a look of shock and says "right, well I'm going back to bed". What I don't tell him is how I stare at the photos of the Ohel until I can feel that African breeze, hear it whistling through the Masasa trees on the kopje just behind the reform community's plaques and clearly visualize the red clay type soil blowing in the wind. How I know that when you need to wash your hands you have to turn on the tap behind the sinks outside the Ohel (although I'm not sure if there's any water there now). I stare at the photos of my parents' graves too and worry that they're dusty and lacking in flowers. I feel like I am the ghost of Warren Hills Jewish Cemetery. This is what its like to be a refugee, in my heart at least. To feel that you've completely lost the land that you were born and grew up in as it will never be the same, and that no one else understands that. Unless they're Zimbabwean, black or white we have a unique bond with each other.

When we started thinking about raising a family I had a huge dilemma. Every parent (or prospective parent) would like to give their children more than they had. But we had such a wonderful carefree life in Zim that it's really hard to do that. Nevertheless we packed up and went to the end of the earth, New Zealand. There I bumped into fellow Zimbabweans who I could sit for hours chatting about "when we" days gone by in Zim and at Sharon School. After a couple of years, though, we had bigger emotional issues because as I have no home left in Zim I realized that the only other place that I can ever call home is Israel. But that's another story to be saved for the "Zimbabwean/South African Israelis who leave Israel and return" blog!

I now have a daughter and I try to pass on my Zimbabwean heritage to her. She's probably the only child in Israel who will know a few Shona words too!!

But I see that I'm not the only displaced person wondering around the virtual Jewish Community of Zimbabwe at odd hours of the morning. Dave seems to be out there with me searching for his roots and the past at odd hours of the morning. So next time I can't sleep and I decide to visit my families' graves I'll know that I'm not the only ghost out there.

PS: Thank you so much for this thoughtful website. It's the only thing left that I can cling to to remember our past.

PPS: Thanks to Benny Leon for taking the photos of the graves. Now at least my children will be able to see their grand parents' and great-grandparents' graves – as I'm not sure they will ever see them in person.