This is not a true story, but it could be. Many women we met at the displaced person camps had storied like this. It's also not as timely as I would have wished. Many of the IDPs are being re-settled now and have to deal with other concerns. "What's left of my house?" Are any of my livestock still alive? Where are the mines?
Anyways, just an effort to try to illustrate a little bit of what it may be like for some of our neighbours around the world. There are some other photos on the picasa site to check out. Called IDP photos.

My name is Nirosha, I’m 24. I have three children, aged 5, 4 and 1. I am pregnant. My husband is dead. My home in west Batticaloa has been destroyed by fighting between the government of Sri Lanka and the Tamil Tigers. My husband was killed by a mortar which landed in our field and we fled. My heart is broken and I cannot grieve. We’ve walked in the hot sun now for 4 days. A few times we managed a ride on the back of a tractor and then we’d jolt down the uneven pock marked roads with other people like us…desperate for peace. We left in such a hurry we had only the clothes on our backs, an umbrella for shade and a little rice and dahl. My children and I traveled for 4 days through the jungle and down dusty parched roads through deserted fields. We were accompanied by our friends and neighbours who were just as terrified and frantic as we were. Everyone too preoccupied with their own troubles to notice me carrying my infant and trying to protect my other two young ones.

We passed through registration stations where we were “recorded” but not helped. We past through villages that haven’t seen the violence we have, at least not this time. Some people tried to help with what little they had to share, but there are so many of us walking through their villages and by now I can see the suspicion building in their eyes. “Where are all these people going to live, how long will they push my kids out of school so they have a place to stay, who will feed them?... I don’t blame them but neither is this my fault.

I have flashbacks of the last time I was displaced. (Such a gentle word for this awful trial. Like someone came by and just shifted me to the side a little, hardly affecting me at all…displaced!)

My family was displaced when I was 5. It was terrifying. We left our house and small farm in the night. I was too young to understand what was happening but I remember the long, hot days walking and walking. My parents couldn’t carry me as well as my younger sister so I walked and walked. I lost one sandal somewhere in the jungle and after that I walked through bush and sand, scared of bugs and snakes and everything that moved. I have these fleeting memories of nights spent in the jungle with strange noises all around and lying uncomfortably under a bush or a tree, with nothing to brighten the morning...just more hot, dusty roads and more hours of walking till my feet were blistered and I remember just wanting to lay down and stay there. I remember the fear in my mother’s eyes and the hopelessness in my father’s. I also remember months and months spent in a tent in a camp so hot and so dry and so devoid of shade I really thought I would die.

And now I feel the fear of my mother and the hopelessness of my father. What will become of my children in a camp like that? Will I have enough food to give them? Will they be safe? I’ve heard awful stories about the rebels who take young children away from their families, surely 5 is too young for that. I’m worried about my home. What will happen when I’m gone? Will there be anything left when I return? How will I support my family now that my husband is dead? Who will help me provide for these kids and give them some happy memories?