No Greater Love - Eris Field Page 0,9

Pieter dropped back into his chair.

“I had no idea that there were so many refugees seeking asylum in The Netherlands. Where do they come from?

“Wherever there are problems: Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan, and Somalia, some even from China.”

“What is the main reason they come?”

“Probably the most common reason is war in their countries. Some fear persecution for political views, and some come in search of better economic opportunities.” He shot a look at Carl. “Many of the male teenagers come alone to try to earn money to help their families.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “Of course, there is always the problem of child-trafficking.”

“So much human misery,” Carl muttered. “How long are the children held in those camps?”

“It depends on how long it takes to process their applications. Sometimes there is missing information, or an appeal, and so on.” He met Carl’s eyes. “It’s usually about three months but sometimes it’s much longer.” He sighed. “As soon as they turn eighteen, they have to leave the camp.”

“What happens to them then?”

“If their application for asylum was not accepted, they have to leave The Netherlands, return to their country.” He grimaced. “Many stay illegally.” He rubbed his left eye to relieve the twitching. “Those who are granted asylum must leave the center and earn their living.” He groaned. “They are turned out onto the streets of Amsterdam at eighteen with no home, no family, no work skills, and barely able to speak or understand Dutch.”

“The poor children. No family and no home.” Carl sighed deeply. “I’m sure they have psychiatric problems. What are you seeing?”

“Exactly what you’d expect, loneliness, sleep problems, anxiety, depression . . . posttraumatic stress disorder.” His eyes were shadowed. “Very often, these children have experienced sexual abuse in their home country and during their journey. High, very high rates, of posttraumatic stress disorder.”

“How are you treating the children?”

“Their problems are staggering.” Pieter leaned forward in his chair with his hands hanging limply between his knees. “They’ve lost their families, homes, schools, and the cultural rules that governed their lives. Their sense of identity and their hope for the future have been stripped from them.” His shoulders drooped. “And, of course, they don’t speak our language.”

“You speak French and Arabic as I recall,” Carl murmured. “That must be helpful but what do you do to treat them?”

“Special schools can help the children connect the past, the flight for refuge, and the future. Schools provide a bridge and I”—he jumped to his feet and resumed pacing—“a university trained specialist in child psychiatry, can only provide strategies to reduce the stress of children waiting to hear at any moment that they will be deported, returned to the situation they escaped.” At Carl’s nod, he continued. “For the young children, we use art, games, stories, and sand play.” He shrugged helplessly. “Five years of specialized training in child psychiatry and I use sand to treat my patients.” He met Carl’s questioning gaze. “I use a table of sand and small objects so that they can recreate their villages, their homes, and their families, and sometimes they tell me about them. But for the older children”—he shook his head in self-disgust—“I have so little to offer them. I listen if they are willing to talk. I try to teach problem-solving skills to children who have always had every decision made for them by their father. I try to build self-esteem where the danger of abuse lurks constantly. I try to teach conflict resolution to adolescent who live six to a tiny apartment and where the stronger ones dominate.”

“You don’t give up on them,” Carl said softly. “You keep going back.”

“Yes, I keep going back.” He stopped pacing and leaned on the fireplace mantel, staring at the glowing embers. “I keep telling them that there’s hope for a better future.”

Suddenly a boom shook the windows and Pieter snapped erect. “What was that?”

“Thunder.” Carl glanced uneasily toward the stairs. “We’re near Lake Erie and we get thunder snowstorms at this time of the year.”

The sound of another crack of thunder followed by a prolonged rumbling filled the room and this time it was followed by a terrified scream. “Anne!”

“Janan. She is calling for her mother in Turkish.” Carl struggled to get out of his chair. “I must go to her. She has recurring nightmares of the earthquake that killed her family.”

With the second scream, Pieter was already racing toward the stairs. “I’ll go,” he said as he took the stairs two at a