Moving to Survive | Suzanne Field

There is a captivating newspaper photo of a nameless woman taped on my refrigerator. She is moving to save her life.

Almost every day I am drawn to examine her picture. I feel uncomfortable as I wonder about this woman.

In May, my husband and I sold our Kansas City home of many years and sorted all our belongings into categories: sell, give away, pack, store, discard.

We notified everyone we know of our new address in Atlanta as well as new cell phone numbers. We closed numerous accounts: banks, cable TV, utilities, etc. We said heart-felt  good-byes to friends, neighbors, church, and community responsibilities.

We enlisted the help of burly men to muscle a houseful of furniture into the longest moving van I’d ever seen.

My husband and I headed south in a heavily packed, older-model vehicle, I wishing it were newer. During thirteen hours on the road, we indulged in caffeine and fast food, listened to audio books, and enjoyed the scenery.

Upon arrival, we unloaded into a comfortable apartment with every amenity we could hope for. During the next few days, we paid dearly to register our vehicles according to Georgia law and began to visit churches, find new friends, health club, doctors, and stores.

All the while, we called it an adventure.

Back to the woman on my refrigerator.

She walks in a world of hard-packed dirt where countless feet have plodded before her. She carries a good-sized baby in a yellow sling. The baby cranes to peer at what lies ahead, his face anxious. Two dusty little boys that look about ages three and four, walk beside the woman. They have protruding bellies and serious, cherubic faces. Perhaps she is their mother. Perhaps not.

Tied to the woman’s waist is a length of colorful fabric such is common to African women. She is bent forward, her eyes to the ground, lips parted, as if no energy can be spared to close them. Her brow is furrowed.

A webbed band presses taut against her forehead. The band and her shoulders support incredibly high and wide piles of rolled floor mats and worn, canvas tenting. Her left arm reaches high to keep the burden in balance. The other arm encircles the heavy baby.

Hanging from the woman’s back is a bulging duffle. I imagine that it thumps against her with each unsteady step.

There is no moving van in sight. No man. No fast food. No cell phone towers. Up ahead will there be a tree for shade? A bush to squat behind?

I doubt she is thinking adventure.

More likely survival.

A two-lined caption below the picture reads: “Displaced: Refugees flee near Goma, Congo, to escape the deadliest clashes in months between government troops and rebels. A combat force under United Nations command . . .” The words themselves are a crime.

Imagine thousands and thousands of refrigerators, each with a picture of a nameless person who has been forced to flee unspeakable tyranny in his or her own country. The captions might read Syria, Sudan, Rwanda . . .

Circumstances, not unpleasant, have made it clear that we will be moving again very soon. This time to Texas.

As we make our arrangements, I wonder about the woman on my refrigerator.

I wonder about her children.

I wonder about our world.

Suzanne Field, a graduate of the University of Minnesota, has taught English as a Second Language in China, Ukraine and Hawaii. She has been a magazine editor and home-school teacher. Suzanne writes to encourage others to rise above memories and embrace the goodness found in each day. She and her husband have five children and divide their time between Dallas and Hawaii where she is a tutor and mentor. Suzanne’s first novel, The Painted Table, is based on fact and pulls at the heart strings. It was released in December, by Thomas Nelson/Harper Collins.

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