HypheNationAn Interdisciplinary Journal for the Study of Critical Moments Discourse

ListenHear
LoudTalking
TalkingLoud

Tracy Blandon Allen

Martha Carey

Futaba Fujikawa

Natasha McPherson

Table of Contents

The photographer Alan Chin has captured the essence of despair in his photograph of Ms. Milvertha Hendrick. When I view this image my mind travels. She is one of the many faces of people I have met around the world; people grieving, people scared, people living with loss that is unfathomable for those of us who have never lost everything. I can hear again the deafening silence of people as they huddle together seeking safety – I remember their names and their stories that are tattooed in my mind – I can smell the stench of terror on myself and those around me.

My first thought was that the flag draped around Ms. Milvertha Hendricks' shoulders was a Liberian flag, and my mind went back to this beautiful country. But above all, I was reminded of the incredible strength of humanity in the face of utter destruction and sadness, no matter what the nationality. In the midst of so much tragedy, there is always a glimmer of those fundamental aspects of the human spirit that is too often taken for granted; strength and dignity. For me, the epitome of this is my Liberian friend Hawah. A refugee herself, Hawah’s love of life touched and inspired all those she knew, both in Liberia and in her new home in the United States.

Like those who survived Katrina in New Orleans, Hawah was a survivor of displacement too. Ironically, as she traveled around this country, she discovered New Orleans and declared, “This is my city!” Hawah and New Orleans, like the flag in Chin’s photo and the story of survival whispered in this image, are linked to the rest of the world. Unfortunately, Hawah tragically died this past December and so her story of survival can only be shared through her written words from a speech she gave at an exhibit to raise awareness about the plight of people who have had to flee their homes.

She told me long ago that I had angels watching over me – and now I know that she is one of those angels. So for those who lived through Katrina, I bring you your sister Hawah Kamara, in hopes you feel the warmth of her hug and laughter that graced the lives of so many, and that you find strength and companionship in her own story of survival.

Hawah – you are so deeply missed.

My name is Hawah Kamara, and I am originally from Liberia. Liberia is a West African country about the size of Indiana, where a brutal civil war raged from the end of 1989 until 1996. In August 1990, the war came to the part of Monrovia (the capital) where I was living, and things began to get very tense. At one point, rebels with guns entered our house, claiming that we were connected to the government. They questioned us, shot at my relatives, and left us in a state of terror. The next morning they returned to the house and forced us all outside. They looted the house and threatened me–even hit and kicked me. We managed to escape serious harm that day, but it was only a matter of time until things would become much worse. Part of my family decided right then that we had to flee the growing violence, and cross the border to Sierra Leone.

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