Finding Neruda in the Refugee Camp

Michelle ushered us into her bedroom where the batik curtains were drawn. I could smell incense burning. After my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see that it was well-decorated, but like all the bedrooms in the dormitories, tiny. There were no chairs and she beckoned me and my four teammates to sit cross-legged on the floor. Then with her usual flair, Michelle began to read a love poem to start off our weekly team meeting. This is how I was introduced to the poetry of Pablo Neruda.

It was 1984 and I was 26 years old and teaching English as a Second Language (ESL) in a refugee camp in the Philippines. I was only on my second “cycle,” or semester, and was nervous at having my first American supervisor. My previous supervisor had been a Filipino like me. I had visions of getting a brash American but instead I got Michelle. She was a graceful gentle giant (over six feet tall) with long cascading blonde hair who favored wearing silver bangles and flowing purple skirts. As a mentor and poet, Michelle gave me a better appreciation of teaching and poetry. When I first expressed doubts about my being a good enough teacher, she reassured me that I was and added that with our students, sometimes kindness was enough.

My classroom was a simple plywood affair with asbestos roofing and jalousie windows through which kids would sometimes peer into and giggle. Since I taught in the afternoons, our rooms would turn stifling hot from the tropical heat. But during the monsoon season, it would pour for weeks on end. When the typhoons turned fierce, we had to close the door and windows to keep the water out. We couldn’t hear ourselves from the noise of the rain on the rooftops and to make things worse, the power would go out and we would be left sitting in the dark. Usually, we ended up sharing stories of our countries, families, and others they left behind.

I was assigned to a level B class (with level A being the lowest and E the highest), which meant my students were literate in their language and spoke a little English. Most of them—twenty Vietnamese and a Lao—were of my parents’ age. They came from different walks of life: former soldiers, fishermen, farmers, entrepreneurs and homemakers. There were a couple of older women who sat unobtrusively in class and did nothing but smile or answer very softly when I called on them. Sometimes they shook their hands and heads to say that it was too difficult to speak English. Our job at the camp was to prepare them for resettlement and life in the U.S. My main goal was to teach them “survival” English six days a week for three months.

Then our cycle was chosen as a pilot cycle for a six-month ESL program. At first the class complained about having to stay longer in camp but soon accepted their fate. I quickly became close to them. They invited me to their humble homes called, billets, for delicious meals cooked over lowly wood or kerosene stoves. I visited their temples and attended their holiday celebrations. When I had to go to Manila for a medical emergency involving my brother, they collected their meager funds and gave my some money. They would not take “no” for an answer and kept on saying, “For your brother.” I was quite moved by their concern.

I don’t recall the particular moment that inspired me to write a poem about my class. Maybe it was when our six months together was coming to an end. Or maybe the first time one of the students ran excitedly into the room and announced that he was on the much-awaited “list.” The departure list, which was publicly posted, contained the names of the refugees and their departure dates for America. For most, this was the culmination of years of suffering and attempts to escape from their countries. Some of them had risked their lives by fleeing on makeshift boats in the open sea and being exposed to ruthless pirates.

One night I sat down and wrote a free-verse poem entitled, “Cycle 35.” It got published in the camp newsletter and my class was very excited to see a poem about them in print. I got a lot of feedback from my fellow teachers who shared my feelings. Michelle sent me a note saying how touched she was by my poem and that her mascara was running as she was writing the note.

Writing this first piece of poetry would later move me to write more, as well as to teach it to my younger refugee students. It also motivated me to read and gain more appreciation for poetry. My interest in poetry was later rekindled when I went back to school at UW–Platteville and had a wonderful English professor who encouraged my writing.

I also shared my love of poetry, including Neruda, with my nephew Ariel—then a budding writer in the Philippines. But in November 2005, he was diagnosed with lymphoma, a cancer so insidious and aggressive that he was gone in a month. My sister, his grief-stricken mother, discovered dozens of exquisitely written poetry that belied his twenty-three years. The poems he left behind, in turn, inspired his grieving grandfather, uncles, and other family members and friends to write poems after his death. Poetry helped us cope with our loss and pain.

And reading Pablo Neruda will never be the same.

—Estela A. Ohlrogge

Estela A. Ohlrogge lives in Black Earth, Wisconsin.