Youssef’s Story and Poem

Youssef Walas tells his Good Chance story and poem.

I did not need to speak French when I met Good Chance for the first time, in Paris. I had recently arrived in France, and their faces spoke without language. 

Everything around me was difficult, complicated, delayed. This was due to several reasons, including the state’s neglect of refugees. What does it mean to be alone in a land that is not your land? Where you do not know the language and no one cares about you and you can only wait and wait?

It is a difficult phase of every refugee’s life. I felt then that I was just an abandoned stray, meaning nothing.

Good Chance met me without voice and without language. “We do not grieve here for you,” their faces said. “Come and empty everything you have. Scream, cry, laugh, embrace, let go. We are here for you.”

I began to feel some hope. My anger and my sorrow subsided amid the beautiful smiles and love that I found in the faces of these people. I began to feel my strength, and to prepare something of my life after feeling tired, sad, and afraid.

It will not be enough to thank these people. They know how to make hope for refugees. I really felt that I was among sincere friends who cared for me and my poetry. At this difficult time in the world, humanity has become a rare thing. But when you meet Good Chance you will feel that humanity is still there, and that people believe in it.

I was thinking — what if I had not met Good Chance? The answer is that I would be on the dark side of my life. It is fair to say that this is a fact. These people left a great impact on me. They did beautiful things, hard to forget. 

I’ve seen tears in the eyes of refugees after the project ends, when Good Chance closes for the season. I understand this grief completely. They have found in Good Chance love, safety, and humanity, so how can they not be sad when it ends? As if they are saying farewell to their homeland and their family. 

You have to be a refugee to truly know what Good Chance means. 

I send you love and hugs — yes, you who are at the other end of the world, you who are in San Francisco, I feel your love, and give you a strong hug hug full of love. 

And this is my poem I give to you.

Behind those ruined houses resembling a pile of cement, behind them lies my soul 
From here the Russians and the Iranians passed, leaving everything behind a pile of cement 
Under these piles lay small bodies called children
And large olive-like bodies called men
Thin, soft, roselike bodies are called women
From here they passed and killed stone, humans, and trees
From here they passed and burned fire from the bones of human beings, celebrated and danced and drank wine as a victory over humanity
Yet my soul is still looking for scattered memories
Here was a small planet not known by NASA, planets of light radiating from them love that does not know demons
We will melt the rest of your head and make a great arch of it and we will write this on our land
These are our houses, these are our trees
Go back as you like and repeat the crime as you like
We will stay here we do not die we are immortal

This piece originally appeared in the programme for The Jungle at The Curran, San Francisco Mar-May 2019