Not anonymous pt. 1

There was a night when we had a bunch of friends over for dinner. The younger boys and I called one of our little brothers who had just been deported back to a camp after making it to Croatia. He kept saying “mamagon (police) big problem”. I could see the relief come across his face to hear from his friends after five days of crawling through a jungle. Then out of nowhere his call dropped and we couldn’t get ahold of him again. The kids all assumed he ran out of data. Yet I couldn’t shake this sick feeling that swelled up inside my gut. I had to excuse myself to my room for a minute because anxiety paralyzed my body in such a way that all I could do was curl into the fetal position. Most days I end up here in the fetal position wishing I could crawl back inside my mother. I felt like the great psalmists who were crying out to a God that felt really far away. My heart screamed God has forgotten: he hides his face; he will never notice. I regained control of my body and kept moving.

But then like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from 24 hours later I received some messages.

Missed call

Missed call

It was the boy… I could see he was typing.

Jess can you come get me?

Sick feeling.

Police kidnapped me, beat me, and stole all my clothes and money. I’m so scared.

And the nightmare continued as I travelled to the camp terrified. The whole car ride I kept thinking about what I would do if I saw the person who hurt him– the people who were supposed to monitor the safety of the camp yet they abuse their power and do things like this. I thought of the last time I went to the camp and I witnessed a police officer run a migrant over with his police vehicle rouse yourself O Lord? Why do you forget our affliction? 

Sick feeling.

When we arrived to the camp he was sitting on a curb; when he saw me a smile came across his tired face. He was older than before I could see that. I found us a taxi and I rode with him back to Belgrade.

As we got in the car he began to share with me what happened. It is going to sound like a nightmare, but I assure you it is worse than that…. because it is real.

In the jungle we had to crawl. There was so much water. I saw flashlights. Zap.

He then showed me all the battle scars: a broken and still bloodied ankle wrapped in makeshift gauze, he showed me his back which had three visible taser marks burned into his back as well as lashes and bruises probably from a baton. He was starving and so tired. He then curled into a ball in the back seat of the taxi and put his head on my lap. He held my hand and asked if he could sleep. I told him of course.

I could tell this 15 year old boy was holding on to something heavy still.

Then with a deep breath right there on my lap his hand clasped tighter with mine  he said,

My sister. At the camp… they dragged me off by my ankles and they touched me. Everywhere.

With that he released himself of what was keeping him awake and drifted into sleep.

Sick feeling.

Save me O God : for the waters have risen up to my neck. 

My body felt paralyzed but I held him close to me until we made it safely back to Belgrade.

In all psalms of lament there is a direct address to God regarding some cry for petition, for God to vindicate the situation at hand, and a vow to praise God when His trusted mercy reigns.

Psalm for the anonymous brethren around me:

God of exodus hear our cries.
We do not count on the politics of earth to redeem us.
We do not rely on the ways of man to lead us to promise.
We depend on you.
Have you also forgotten our name O Lord
Were we not so perfectly knit in the wombs of our mothers?
When will you free us from the borders of our lives;
Relinquish us from the prisons we are shackled to;
Light the paths of our journeys;
And shield us from our enemies.
We have heard the tales of the freedom you brought to those who look upon you
We believe in the promises our ancestors shared with us
We hold you as the mighty king
that will guide us through the wilderness
and protect us through the storm
We will rejoice at the mercy you have shown us
and spread your goodness wherever you guide us O Lord.
Call us by name
unlike the world which has abandoned us!
And hear our cries for justice
for we are your children my God.

I want to share these hard stories with the world because I believe it is my duty to share the cries of my brothers with the world. The boy in this story has had to sell his body to survive because the world has neglected his vulnerability and his humanity. There are 10,000 missing refugee children in Europe and I hate imagining how many of the young eyes I have looked into that have vanished now. This boy is more than just another Afghan refugee child who has been abused by the world politic.. he is special. His laugh will make you laugh. Stuffed animals bring him more joy than any person I have ever met. He is a good brother and a natural leader and peacemaker amongst his friends. He’s an amazing attan dancer and loves learning other dances. He cannot fall asleep if someone is mad at him. He makes incredible green tea. He’s never been to school but he loves math. I want him to be more than anonymous to you all. I want you to imagine his tanned torn apart skin, the way his hair falls over his bright eyes, how he stands strong even though everyone has tried to make him feel weak, and this giant smile that cannot be taken from him.

The collective choice of the world has been to stay anonymous to one another and to not allow the suffering of others to penetrate our own lives. I think part of solving this crisis is to begin believing that our liberation is bound together with the liberation of our brothers and sisters throughout the world.

I have seen the delicate way in which God has woven the human story together, and is demanding the action of God’s own children to do what is right in its commission to love one another and tend to all of creation.

Watan awoke abruptly in the car panting.

Ahmad is he okay?!?!? he said.

Link to anonymous pt. 2 coming soon.

 

The Peace Prayer– my new normals

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace

One time in 8th grade I saw two girls fighting. There was this one girl at my school who used to think getting in fights and into trouble made her really cool. One of the “popular” girls stood up to her and ended up with her face smashed into a locker. It happened to be the locker next to mine, which was empty. For the rest of the school year there remained an imprint of her face. It served as a reminder– 1 to never mess with Sam and 2 that there is brokenness in this world not just in objects but in people.

12 months ago I thought that the world was not peaceful because my parents used to argue, not everyone at university wanted to be my friend, and there were wars in my history books.

Now every person I see has left imprints upon my heart that remind me of both the brokenness and tenacity of the human. I do not know every person’s Sam that has brought violence upon them or which ones of them are the “Sams” of this world, but my new normal is to treat them all the same.

My little brother and I have a secret handshake

And what is even crazier is that I remember 9/11/2001. I was sick at home with pneumonia– laying on the couch next to my mother begging her to turn on cartoons, and she kept saying “after the news.” She went to the bathroom and during the broadcast it happened. I called to her so confused like “Mom something is wrong.” My nine year old brain rationalized that maybe the pilot got sick or fell asleep, but then it happened again. I remember thinking it was a villain like Mojo jo jo from the cartoon “Power Puff Girls”. My mom was sobbing and kept whispering my brother’s name over and over again. Several hours after the incident I heard

ringggggg

ringgggg

I answered the phone. It was my brother and he quickly said “Jessi give the phone to mom.”

I sat so close trying to listen, but I could not hear anything passed my mother’s sobs.

And just like that two years before the actual “Iraq Invasion” in 2003 my brother was being sent to Iraq. It was his duty.

He ended up serving in both Iraq and Afghanistan. The pictures he would paint of what was happening there was so gruesome. I could tell the way the “war” before it was even properly called a war was tearing him apart. He was held by a duty to find and fight the bad guys, but I think somewhere along the way that line got really confused.

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

I have felt hatred towards a lot of people in my life for a variety of different reasons. What I have learned about myself over the years is that I have quite a justice complex. My number one strength is reconciliation and I see broken things through a lens of redemption. When things are not just I hate them and the entities that make love disordered.

When I was small I remember starting a recess revolution against this girl who guarded the tire playground and would not let anyone else play on it. I got a bunch of people to circle it and chant “Let us play” until she finally got annoyed and “let us play.” I remember thinking that was real sacrifice. All those recesses spent going in a circle and getting nowhere until one day we finally got somewhere.

My brother told me a story once about how in Iraq the village children used to come up to them when they would have bonfires, and they would share roasted marshmallows with the children. He couldn’t help but to think of how there parents might be mixed up into this whole thing happening. Whatever this thing happening was. Because yes there were radicals, and yes there were bombings, and yes there were fathers, and yes there were soldiers, and yes there were sons, brothers, mothers, daughters and none of that was guaranteed to be anonymous from one another.

He told my mom on the phone one night that there are kids my age who will grow up thinking this is normal. That such violence and chaos is just normal.

where there is injury, pardon;

I used to talk a lot. I was a very precocious child and thought I knew everything. I would preach people’s ears off about causes that were certainly noble, but my words were empty because while I was challenging people to do something I myself was not doing anything.

I’m no longer on the playground– I’m up against enemies I can’t even see. The problem is it is no one person’s fault, but everyone’s fault. The migrant situation has been a collective effort that reveals the global failure of humanity to protect and serve our neighbors at large.  The worst part is that because the problem is so expansive that it’s hard to strategize about large scale solutions. So volunteers and aid organizations are left to scramble and try to put a cap on a bottle that has already started exploding.

By the time migrants get to Serbia they have been on a long and dangerous journey already. They come to us tattered from harsh Bulgarian prisons and a rough jungle. Then the next step is to attempt to move through either of two incredibly dangerous borders. If they do not succeed they most certainly return to us with battle wounds. Not just little cuts but often bashed skulls, torn up legs, whipped backs, and damaged bones. I’m not a doctor, but sometimes I’ve had to be. In the last 12 months I’ve learned to never leave the house without at least the essential first aid stuff like bandaids, gauze, aspirin, and Neosporin.

I listen to the cries of hurting people all day long. I sit with people and throughout the day probably drink 100 cups of tea and just listen. I can’t do much talking because my words won’t make anything better, but there is something powerful and meaningful in me sitting there and just stating that they are heard.

The barracks and every refugee camp I’ve ever been to are marked with evidence of the war against migrants in Europe. From messages written in marker on tents and the graffiti on the walls of the barracks it is clear that these people are prisoners of a different war than the ones they escaped in their home countries.

where there is doubt, faith;

I never know if I am stepping in mud or human waste anymore. 12 months ago I never had to doubt that because it was most certainly mud. Now it is more than likely human waste with a little mud.

Everyone I spend time with is not where they want to be. They don’t know what is happening at home and do not know what is going to happen to them.

Part of airstrike missions is to drop giant missiles and bombs down in territories that are supposedly held by the bad guys. So the point is to wipe out entire areas that are potentially dangerous, but this is a big move when there are also most certainly innocent people held there.

Some people cling to their duty to protect and serve their own country.

I pledge allegiance to the Lamb and to the kingdom for which he stands. I am called to create a kingdom out of the rubble and to stand firm alongside those who have lost everything.

For 12 months I have been going in circles and while I have not gotten any tire playground kings to step down I have broadened my circle and made something out of the mess. It may not be much but “za maco staco, staco za maco” my house is your house, your house is my house.

za maco staco

staco za maco

where there is despair, hope;

Being hopeful was a lot easier when all that was at stake was a grade on a test I did not prepare enough for or when I just had to have enough hope for myself.

I have a hard time thinking of my brother in a war zone. He’s my brother. He’s the same man who gave me piggy back rides and took longer to get ready for dinner than I ever could. He’s calculated, refined, and kind.

When I used to think of war I thought of monsters in far away lands and time periods. The images didn’t carry flesh because I could not comprehend a humanity in that light.

Now when I think of war I see skin and bones. I see death and destruction. I see life all around me falling apart. I see people living in tents all across Europe. I see smoke billowing out of the abandoned barracks. I see vulnerable people having to beg and fight for shoes and other necessities. I see myself in the middle of all of it trying to clasp onto whatever hope I can find and I look around and I am not alone.

where there is darkness, light;

My first day on a refugee camp a little girl came up to me while I was waiting for my passport to be cleared. She dragged me along narrow rows of tents in the middle of nowhere Greece. Our destination was her family tent where a large group of people were gathered sharing sambosa. After taking off my shoes I was welcomed to sit and share life with their family.

Navigating the predator drone I imagine looks similar to a video game counsel. There’s a dark screen with a lot of buttons. The person beside the pilot is the one who stares at the dark satellite screen and waits for a red light to signal that there are potential hazards or threats in that area. They quickly must zoom in and hit the button to release the bomb. The next bit of light they see is from the fire of the explosion.

It’s no game counsel. It is a very real BOOM that causes very real destruction.

I used to be so afraid of everything. I never liked to try new things because I was afraid of failing at it or of the threat of danger.

I really did not like the girl who guarded the tire playground. She did not even play on it she just said inside the dark little cave and would not let anyone else enjoy it. However, I think my little recess revolution helped to bring something out in her that was much kinder. Throughout grade school and all the way through high school she was one of the popular girls, but because she was nice and really welcoming to all people.

The day Sam got in that fight it was because the entire day she was tormenting people by the only water fountain on the floor of the building. Threatening them and stealing their lunch money. She wasn’t letting people use the water fountain. And the popular girl who later got her face smashed in a locker was the same girl who controlled the tire play ground.

People are filled with both darkness and light and it is our human opportunity to be light and help to bring it out of others.

The people here have made me brave enough to see light in a really dark world.

So much of my life now is following people into the corners of society where no one else is looking or has forgotten about. My first night in Belgrade I was helping with an evening food distribution.  A young attractive man saw me struggling to communicate with a small child. He said “he speaks Pashto, I’ll help you what do you want to say?” After communicating with the boy for awhile he then told me all about the history of Pashto. He was so excited and so smart and energetic. When he found out I was from America he said I love history and all my history textbooks are English. I know everything about America. He started listing the Presidents and facts about them. He then excitedly said, “come, come let’s drink cola.” I followed him along a set of train tracks for over a mile until we came to an old decrepit building. “Sit, drink, be happy” he said.

It was so dark in the room. I used my phone as a flashlight so I could see him and the people he shared the room with. We sat for awhile and I just listened to the story of his journey. About all the darkness he had seen, all that he had lost, all that he dreamed of becoming, how much drive he had, and when he finished speaking I finally saw him for what he was… a light before me.

I’ve had to be brave here. I’ve had to block out any fear or darkness that comes into my head because now my new normal is creating that boom of light where it has been forgotten or destroyed.

where there is sadness, joy.

Depression runs in my family. My mother struggled with depression her entire life and it controlled her life until it destroyed it.

I remember her asking my brother how he was doing? He would chuckle and say “Mom there is no joy in a war zone.”

When I was trying to find my apartment in Greece for the first time we were locked outside. A woman wearing a leopard print hijab walked up to us with her husband she said “Ahlan wa Sahlan… welcome welcome. Are you stuck?” We explained yeah we were going to have to wait awhile for the landlord to come open the apartment. She then said “my home is right there come sit, eat.” She fed us a chicken and rice dish and started to teach us basic arabic after she learned we were here to volunteer on the camps and in the community. What I found most interesting is how Arabs respond to the question how are you? Rather than saying fine or good they almost always say “Alhamdullah” all praise be to God. She explained that Muslim people for all their history have made it apart of their faith to thank God in all circumstances.

I spent most of my life seeing the world through a really bleak lens when in reality things were not so bleak. Our mind is a really powerful weapon that controls how we live in this world. Whether we navigate through this life with strength, grace, and courage or run through it being trampled by the weight of it all is really up to us.

There is no joy in war zone yet every day I’m looking at the tired smiling faces of those in a war zone.

YET

and it is a big yet because it a powerful yet. I have more joy in my life now than I have ever had before because it is my practice, it is my way of life to proclaim Alhamdullah, All Praise be to God.

Even though now life is actually very bleak. I am living in the side effect of the war my brother served in that has spread like wildfire throughout the middle east. The war that has taken millions of lives in the past 15 years. The war that has no clear Mo Jo Jo, no clear red light on a satellite screen, no mercy, no heroes, and no resolution.

The same children my brother looked at and couldn’t help but think of how destructive their normal was are the same children that grew up alongside me on the other side of the planet, but now stand before me as men and women who have only known that such violence and chaos is just normal.

They are the same faces I am now staring at every day. I watch their cracked lips and worn out faces recount the stories of the same war from the opposite side of things. The one that isn’t about duty and eliminating threats but about survival and fear and destruction. About running away from the violence and leaving their life behind in hopes that they don’t die or be forced to fight in a war they’ve never understood because the lines have never been clear.

These are the same people who have offered me incredible kindness. Who have fed me, clothed me, adorned me, and loved me. The same people who have persevered and found a way to bring joy into a situation that feels like a crack in the windshield of humanity.

My new normal is every day picking up the remains of humanity that have been destroyed by war and choosing to say Alhamdullah no matter how badly I want to succumb to the brokenness. Instead I fall to my knees in Praise

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen. 

 

All photos in this blog were taken by Stephens Hiland and used with permission

Clothed In Righteousness: expelling myths about hijab

I’ve been debating this post for the past 8 months, and that’s about 8 months of silence too long. People ask me a lot what has been the thing that has surprised you the most about Middle Eastern culture and about people who practice Islam? So I want to answer that question now.

In Greece I spent my time with some of the strongest, most compassionate, and most independent women I have ever met. I don’t just say that in relation to all they had to endure throughout their journey to Greece– those stories are super human and have taught me to be brave.

No, I mean boss women who despite how rough things are on a refugee camp kept their heads up and continued to be the strongholds for their families. In my own ignorance I used to associate hijab with weakness. In my own ignorance I associated hijab with submission. In my own ignorance I associated all of that with Islam. What I have learned, through witness and life together, is a completely different narrative. It’s a beautiful sentiment of faith and an outward reflection of the inward transformation.

The book of Isaiah uses a lot of imagery about being clothed with righteousness, which points back to many Old Testament verses and Hebraic practices of faith. Our own faith is rooted in symbolic practice– we do these things to set us apart or to make us look different or theologically speaking to make us holy. Muslims share this crucial practice with us– their Quran shares the same sentiments of being adorned by God and coming before God clean and holy.

I think I’ve realized the very way in which my own culture is so sexualized.The Quran itself says nothing about a woman having to cover her hair and where it does tell women to dress modestly it simultaneously tells men to subdue their eyes (Reference Holy Quran Ayah 24:30-31). The women I spend time with are always so shocked when they find out that public breastfeeding is an issue in America; woman on the camp would breast feed in front of male volunteers because it’s about feeding their gift from God not some sexual or perverse act. Modesty for them, isn’t about avoiding objectification from the opposite human counterpart.  It’s not about resisting temptation. It’s not about social obligation. Modesty for them as well as  Islamic men is a way to worship God. Covering the body reveals the soul that’s been made clean before God. However, they don’t have too. It doesn’t make them any less of a Muslim and certainly doesn’t shape their humanity. The Quran reads “O children of Adam, we have provided you with garments to cover your bodies, as well as for luxury. But the best garment is the garment of righteousness. These are some of God’s signs, that they may take heed” (7:26). It’s not hard to find a passage in the bible that uses the same language. From the oldest book Job, to the prophets, to the letters of Paul and other early church letters, to Revelations you find this narrative of God clothing his people in righteousness. Dispelling their sin and covering them from it. I myself have worn the hijab because my own faith proclaims all the things the hijab stands for. I am not my body, my body is not something to be worshipped, and personally for me the hijab frees me of my own societal standards of beauty and has allowed me to feel beautiful at the core of who I am– a child of the Creator who has made me dignified and righteous before Godself.

One of my favorite moments of the past nine months was a month ago on my last morning in Greece before heading back to Serbia. I woke up really early and headed into one of the common rooms of the camp with my bible. I just wanted some quiet time to prepare myself for the goodbyes I would have to say that evening. When I walked in my beautiful mother from Syria. An incredibly smart Kurdish, Muslim woman sat reading the Quran and drinking coffee.

“Come sit my daughter.”
I sat and she got up and came back with a cup of coffee.
We sat in silence reading our holy books.
I put my head down in prayer and later she began her prayer ritual.
I watched as she knelt before God as she did the recitations. The words left her lips so gently.
I kept my head down and continued to pray alongside her.
There was a moment when I was praying “Great are you Lord” As the words left my lips I heard her mutter her own quiet prayer “Allah Ahkbar” which means God is great!
We then made eye contact with one another. I looked into the eyes of a woman who was clothed with dignity, who loved God, and who loved people. She had always been beautiful to me, but when I looked at her this time she was even more beautiful. She radiated the God inside her who has given her peace through the storm and sheltered her from danger, and who she trusted would reunite her with her family that was far away. After she finished her prayer she came and sat next to me. She gave me a big hug and with tears in her eyes said “God protect this precious one you brought to us to remind us of your love.”

I had to overcome some of my own ignorances. Just because it’s different doesn’t make it bad. I have a feeling you fear the things you don’t understand and that’s valid. But to allow your fear to become hatred is a problem. What’s even worse is too allow your hatred and prejudices to turn into action and rhetoric that is life taking and hurts others. Islam is different from my own faith, but taking the time to understand it doesn’t make me any less Christian. I have lived and practiced an openly Christian life in complete cooperation with practicing Muslims for the past 9 months. We have learned and helped each other through out the whole experience. We have met each other with peace, grace, and love the entire time.

The reason why I’m even taking the time to write this post is because I know it’s possible for people of different faith and cultures to live together in peace. I know because I’m doing it. And I’m learning, growing, and being made better because of it. I pray for open borders, but even more so I pray for open hearts. In my waking dreams I envision a world that stands by the oppressed, that welcomes the immigrant, and seeks justice.

May your will be done Lord. Inshallah.

Life is Beautiful: a strange sentiment in the wake of a dying girl

The world situation is a tough one right now: violence, hatred, and fear are the surface narrative being told at the moment and it is enough to make the air on your shoulders feel heavy. “My burden is heavy” is almost an understatement at this point because sometimes I feel like my whole world is caving in.

I can’t reconcile the goodness of the people I encounter with the evil they’ve been exposed to.

I was led by a 12 year old boy well passed the barracks where most people stay. We walked along the train tracks until we reached an abandoned hut. The lower part of the hut was flooding. They put a thick log down to walk across to the stairs. In this tiny upstairs room I met the other men he was staying with. The 12 year old began to clean a rusty pot and boiled some water over a cardboard fire in a rusty stove. He was making Afghanistan’s famous milk tea for me. The other men started to show me pictures of the families they left behind or lost along the way. “This is my brother he was shot in a forest in Turkey.”  “That’s my baby girl I miss her so much.” I showed the men the app Snapchat and turned my 12 year old friend into a puppy… they thought it was hilarious. It was so good to hear laughter. We then made a boomerang also but they didn’t understand it. After drinking my weight in tea and nibbling on peanuts I was getting ready to go because it was time for the next distribution. As I was about to leave another young boy came in the door. I noticed he was bleeding. With tears in his eyes he began to share with the other boys what happened to him. Police near the border cut his stomach with the knife he was using to cut through one of the fences. I had Bandaids on me and was able to clean the wound a little bit. I asked how old he was… he said 17. I asked him why he came here and he said “I don’t want to be forced to fight… I just want to go to university.” 

Za maco staco, staco za maco– my house is your house, your house is my house.

I’m tired of offering peace, shalom, salam in the constant and violent resistance.

A peaceful protest asking for no more borders so they could move passed safely.

I am with few in the joy we create amongst such despair and darkness. I am surrounded by hopeful people with huge dreams and crazy wonderful personalities.

Yes, without-a -doubt things are bleak a long the overarching narrative. In Greece people have been trapped upward 11 months now… pawns of another humanitarian aid job market, poor planning, and hostility. Along the balkan land route between Turkey, Bulgaria, Serbia, Croatia, and Hungary lies a slew of dying or already dead prisoners of borders and other nationalisms. In Western Europe you have fears creating violences different from war but equally as terrifying: walls, deportations, arrests, and little support for those granted permission to stay and acclimate appropriately. Not too mention the hate-filled and power hungry Cheeto that just took over the white house in America.

Yes, these are heart breaking and discouraging elements of the narrative and I cannot ignore them. These things make me feel so powerless and really put me in my place. I am the bottom…of the bottom of the totem pole here but that does not mean I  can just give up the fight for justice.

Psalm 146:2-7

Do not put your trust in princes,
    in mortals, in whom there is no help.
When their breath departs, they return to the earth;
    on that very day their plans perish.

Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob,
    whose hope is in the Lord their God,
who made heaven and earth,
    the sea, and all that is in them;
who keeps faith forever;
who executes justice for the oppressed;
    who gives food to the hungry.

Sometimes I feel so discouraged when I see the response of so many. How anti everything people are, but I am not called to serve those who oppress but to bring life to those being oppressed. No matter how discouraging certain entities and institutions can be I know that my efforts are not for nothing. I believe every time I enter the space of another person whether that be a tent, room, or squat I encounter the God who is Creator of all. None of us have much of anything to offer other than the love of our hearts and our giving that comes from our nothingness. I often feel like the less I have the more I’m able to give of myself; I’m tiptoeing ever more nearer to God with every moment I allow myself to rest in the simple presence of others. Even though my doubts and fears of rejection attempt to hold me back I’m being ever more pulled into God’s reconciliation. I am dying everyday. I can feel it in my aching body and soul, but yet I’m constantly held together by a relentless mercy and grace that brings forth life.

There is no electricity in the barrack so one night we all had dinner together and cooked over a tiny gas tank and used our phones as flashlights. It will forever be one of the most special nights of my life as I broke bread with some of the most kindhearted people I have ever met.

And these type of moments where I get invited into homes or have people into my own home are so life giving because its in these spaces where we share the burden. We hold the weight of everything that is heavy together. To be honest,  on my own, I’m really hurting and sometimes struggle to have hope or keep my joyous heart radiating. Some days it takes everything in me to not crumble on the ground. I have so many nicknames here: Ruhat is my Kurdish name meaning “the sun is coming.” My arabic name is Shahd, which is the sweetest part of the honey. Syrians call me their butterfly or their special joy. In Serbia I’m pesho or cat and I’m known for dancing around. I keep it together because I know if I can give these people anything it would be my joy even when I struggle to find it for myself. That is why community and life together are so important because as I’ve opened myself up to the possibility, and stopped thinking of othere as those who need saving I find myself being saved by the love and strength of others.

I’m not saying it gets easier to see the conditions in the barracks. It’s not fun to never know if I’m stepping in mud or human waste or to cough up black ash and sneeze out black mucous. It’s cumbersome to wait for people to get phone calls about the progress of their relocation or to hear nothing at all. I don’t know how to deal with the anxious feeling that swells within my heart when people I love tell me they are going on a game to one of the borders. I barely keep it together when I hear stories about fleeing war, dangerous journeys, and the brutal way in which humans treat other more vulnerable humans. I still cannot deal or reconcile the pain that takes over every time we hear about a death in the jungle somewhere. My dreams are often haunted with faces of people I knew that have been killed or overtaken by nightmares of things to me– that are only monsters– but to my family are reality. My heart breaks for families that are torn apart and for families who have dead children, brothers, fathers, sisters, mothers, spouses in some unmarked grave in Europe somewhere. I look upon the faces of young men everyday who do not look so young anymore. I think about the way in which these boys have aged because of these strenuous journeys they embark upon and how tired they all look– I look at my own face and see a solemn cover of exhaustion. I have all these little peanuts, just super young boys, who are my brothers, but they are so small and just on their own. I don’t have the answers as to why or how so many little boys are stranded and why no one is properly protecting them and how anyone could turn them away or hurt them. Deep breath. I’m so tired of all of it. I’m exhausted and I feel guilty saying that because I don’t even have to deal with the full weight of their suffering. I don’t even have a portion of it really.

However, this is the tension we are called to live into. We don’t just wait for the kingdom to come, we bring it. We not only bare the image of God’s holiness we must not forget the cross which is an essential part of the image we are called to bare. We enter into suffering and take it as our own. After Jesus tells his disciples of his death and resurrection he calls them to the cross in Matthew 16 it reads, “Then Jesus told his disciples, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (NRSV).

I think this has been a struggle of the Church for all it’s history. It is counterintuitive to suffer– we would rather there be some pre-existing joy bath we could invite others into and just be happy all the time. Yet Christ directly calls us to die, to feel pain, to suffer. Paul wrestles with this call throughout his ministry as narrated by the letters he writes… most notably in Galatians where he struggles with the tension that comes between law and faith, maybe moreover the tension between sin and grace, maybe moreover yet the tension between justice and love… “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me.” And if it is Christ who lives in me than I have to bARE that very tension of the cross where all things counterintuitive intersect and I bow down. And that’s just it I’ve bowed down at the wake of all the things that are hard and scary for me in this stage of life. I’ve freed myself from trying to carry the burden alone. I’ve let myself fall recklessly into never ending love for the other no matter the cost. 

Where I’m at in life right now does not permit me to go numb to the pain and inadvertently go numb to all the injustices. Even though that would be easier and I’ve seen workers and volunteers alike go that route, but in the long run it kills them. A living Christ means a living cross and without it life is a living death. We know Lord that the world will never cease to return hatred for love and return violence for peace. Still we pray for peace. Still we pray for the courage and confidence to walk in love and peace. The cross becomes the place where we are all equalized, where we all cry out “why God?” God takes the wood from our crosses and the crosses of our neighbors to build the tables in which we sit at together.  At the cross we simultaneously die to ourselves and through the brokenness of it all what remains is born new. 

I took this photo as I sat around the table of a Serbian restaurant with people from Pakistan and Afghanistan and other Americans. One little boy played Pashto music on my phone that we share, another man told us about common Pashto greetings. We all met at the table, the place where we come to find rest in those we delight in the company of.

Life is so beautiful and that may seem like a strange sentiment in the wake of a hard blog post. But believing that life is beautiful is a decision I have made and I pray the Christ in me is able to make it a reality in the life of those I encounter. I stand with all those striving and working to make the world a more beautiful reality where the narrative of hope and peace and what is the kingdom is the dominant one. The one filled with with people who refuse to accept or stand for the injustices.

I am with all those who stand in protest, those that stand as a shield between their neighbor and their oppressors, all the silent heroes inviting refugees into their homes and providing meals and security for those who pass by, all the volunteers working tirelessly to meet the needs of the silenced and oppressed despite the legal ramifications we all face for doing so. I am with every laugh shared between people from different worlds. I am huddled around every fire and heater in every tent. I am on my knees in prayer with every person from every faith background calling out “God enough, protect your people… may justice and mercy roll on like a river.” I call out with every aching breath that says “No ban. No Wall.” “Borders Kill. “Humanity First.” “Refugees Welcome.”>>> our words are not in vain. With every syllable we utter we create meaning in the hearts of those who needed to hear that they are not alone and show our solidarity with those being persecuted. May our words continue to move into action and may we never become silenced out of fear. It is within our power and ability to change the overarching narrative.

Goodbye from Aleppo

My friends need me to laugh for them sometimes. In my 10 months of doing humanitarian aid there have been hundreds of times when I’ve wanted to break down and cry on the spot. I have only actually done so a handful of times. I think part of my responsibility is to be strong when my friends can’t or don’t know how.

This is a hard time for my friends. They would never admit it. They are holding it together really well, but I can observe the way they are checking their phones. Hoping not to receive any news because with the state of things any news would be bad or worse. So I am here just trying to hold myself together and be a light. I’m trying to bring joy where there is hurt, redemption to what feels broken, and comfort to what feels heavy. I don’t really have a strategy for any of this I’m just kind of existing with people and making myself available for a one hundredth cup of tea this morning. I’m smiling. I’m laughing. I’m occupying time that feels still and motionless and lofty.

But now it’s 2:30 in the morning and I can’t sleep again because I’m up re-watching videos from Aleppo in my head. I’m hearing my friend Mohammed say “my brother called to say goodbye today just in case.” I’m reflecting on the prayers of my friends “Aleppo is burning, people are dying, we want things to change, but Allah is with us. We know Allah hears us.” I’m praying similar prayers “lord you are good, you carry the weight of the world, I trust you God.” I’ve been watching goodbye from Aleppo videos with my friends for days now. They all reflect the same love, beauty, and sorrow, but also represent the uniqueness and humanness of each individual who cries out. So in the dark of my shared bedroom I am crying and penning my goodbye from Aleppo message:

Can you hear me?
I pray my voice carries loud enough so you don’t forget me. I am your sister… or did I not share in your humanity? It does not matter now these words will probably be the last I ever write. I’ve watched my city burn and I did not watch it alone. Well it is finished now, but still they take more. I fear the will not stop until the city is drenched in our blood.
Do you hear me now?
My screams are getting louder, I am dying.
I pray one day we will all live in a world where there is no pain and you can hear me. I pray we never make these mistakes again.
The world  is a beautiful place and I am no longer afraid to die.
Goodbye from Aleppo,
Jessica

I wrote it out of a place of deep grief because my own heart is breaking. I have heard friends here say “when one daughter dies, every daughter dies” what they mean by this sentiment is that for them humanity is so tightly wound together that you can’t separate one daughter from another. When one person dies it’s like every person has died. I don’t speak on behalf of Aleppo as some sort of other voice from the outside that’s worth anything different… I speak with Aleppo.

Life as my friends knew it is dead. Aleppo has lost a four year battle and admitted its defeat yet still the war rages on not stopping until every ounce of blood has been shed. What we all once understood as humanity has been tainted by those who blew it up and all of those who ignored it. When one city burns they all burn because with the flames come ashes that remind us of our brokenness and our fragility.

This is a vulnerable post for me because I’m trying to not succumb to my own bitterness and dissatisfaction with the disenfranchised establishments that get to decide everything. I’m trying to write this post from deep within my bowels where compassion lives. I’m hurting and I’m crying out tonight.

Advent is the season where we remember a God who took on flesh and pitched a tent in the neighborhood. We find solace in a God who laughs at fear, breaks open with the suffering, and goes to the most forsaken places whether it be a barn or Aleppo. From his very birth as a baby refugee born in the midst of a genocide Jesus knew suffering. He understood poverty and pain until his death on a roman cross. Lord you carry the weight of the world. I’m learning that I can never completely carry the full weight of others burdens and there are three candles glowing that serve as a symbol of the way in which you lit up the darkness with your coming and the way in which you enable creation to do the same.

So goodbye from Aleppo but hello from another place where humanity has been restored by the love of one human heart to the next. Where there is love you will find me waiting… I am ready.

Bashuufak battashway, See You Later (lamenting psalm 23)

I have my portion.

People ask me what an average day looks like for me a lot. I wish it wasn’t such a difficult answer. My days have very little consistency. A week ago I could have said

“In the mornings I went to Petra camp, taught English, played games with Alland, Musafa, Gasia, Mazen, Ziad, Afrah, Azdha, and Aleas. Maybe I sat in one of their tents and shared a meal. Maybe we played choca-la-te or rock a baby. Maybe we went to the tea tent. Or maybe it was just one of those days where standing around holding their hands was enough. After that I would go to Hercules and teach madrasa (school). Then I drink tea with everyone and learn some Arabic or play cards or watch videos on YouTube. Then I go home, tuck myself into bed, sleep, and repeat.”

But things are different again. Petra camp closed because living on a mountain in the middle of winter is not a good thing. My kids are spread out now and “bushuufak battashway” now becomes a harder promise to keep, but not impossible because I have everything I need to get myself there.

Goodbye Petra

A day in the life

A day in the life

A day in the life

A day in the life

All my love.

I shall not want.

So much of what I do is hopeful. I’m hoping that in time things will be better for my friends. I’m hoping that time allots us the opportunity to do all the things I say battashway to. I rarely say goodbye these days because I believe in the power of hope that permits us to meet again. I take comfort in the see you later whether it’s in Greece tomorrow or Greece in two weeks, or in Germany six months from now, or America 3 in three years. Things driven by fear do not last because fear is in it’s entity something to be overcome. I do not fear the future or worry about the future. I take comfort in every moment I shared with the wonderful people of Petra camp…. Your culture, while wildly misunderstood by most, is beautiful, hospitable, and strong. Do not miss me my friends, do not long for me or anyone in our absence because as always “bushuufak battashway ez te hez dikem (see you later. I love you).

The table is set.

The human person needs so much to be fulfilled. What I am seeing happen right now in Greece is falling short. Everything is transitioning into closed camps where only the military and larger NGOs can enter. They are becoming detaining centers as if refugees are prisoners. NO VISITORS ALLOWED. Signs and security are telling us.

They are being taken care of: They still get those chocolate croissants every day and condensed milk and feta cheese and some mushy rice with peas… oh maybe today they were lucky and got rice and carrots… here comes dinner… spaghetti again. It’s not that they aren’t grateful, but it’s been 9 months of the same thing over and over again. Just because humans are fed does not mean they are full.
People are not permitted to join them at the table anymore. The table is the place where a croissant can become more if the company breathes life into it. Greece is trying to tuck refugees away and isolate them and ignoring the psycho social needs of the most vulnerable people on the planet right now. I watch videos of what’s happening in Aleppo and my heart breaks because I know they are trapped. Word has gotten out that Greece and the rest of Europe is becoming an unmarked graveyard for the Middle East.

I was watching the news on one of the camps a few weeks ago about the bombings in Aleppo. A 16 year old boy from Aleppo said “that’s my house” as the news was airing another air strike took place on camera I watched this little boys home be blown up before my eyes. I held him expecting him to cry but he didn’t he just sat there and said “this is the life my sister. Do not be sad from me.” Then we shared a meal together because the table is a sacred space where we meet to find peace, love, and solidarity.

I walk through the darkest valley.

Every step of the journey every Syrian, Afghan, Iraqi, and Pakistani person makes is a risk. The west has given itself the right to decide who is the deserving and undeserving poor. Afghanistan and Pakistan are no longer considered refugee countries so the thousands of people who fled war and violence from those countries are now forced to make illegal journeys in an attempt to reach somewhere and seek asylum. It’s a very dangerous and desperate situation for these people and the response has been deportations, beatings, detaining, and ignoring.

I lie in green pastures. 

The land between Serbia and Hungary is very beautiful– hilly and green. There are beautiful forests you can observe on the train from Beograd to Budapest. It’s a nice train ride. I imagine in the winter as it gets cold snow gathers on the trees, it must be quite the site. My friends making these journeys get a different view of these countries as they have to go through the forest and unmarked landscapes to cross borders.
I received a call from a 12 year old boy I knew from my time in Serbia he was crying. He wants my help to find him a lawyer so that he can just seek asylum in Serbia and so I can adopt him. He said “I want this all finished. I don’t want to die.” I then found out one of his roommates in the barracks, another 12 year old boy, froze to death crossing from Serbia to Hungary. A 12 year old mourning the loss of another 12 year old. It’s an unbearable image on my heart these days. I imagine the dreams that boy had dreams of prosper not harm, I bet his plans were of a hopeful future. I see his face and I imagine it frozen in a forest somewhere… take your borders Europe, but give me Jesus.

I dwell in the house of mercy and goodness. 

The last thing I said to those boys was bushuufak battashway and I don’t get to keep that promise. I hope that in all of my crying out for mercy, mercy shall be done. I hope if I keep seeking goodness it will bare enough fruit. In this season of Advent I am waiting, let redemption come.

La ma salama, bushuufak battashway.

A Foreigner in this Place

I have a friend here in Serbia. He’s 9 years old, from Afghanistan, he’s a prankster, super energetic, really really stupid cute, and this is where he sleeps with his family.

Inside that abandoned rotting bunker with about 600 men and boys. Around 1000 refugee men have been trying to find “shelter” every night now that it’s cold here in Beograd.

I’m struggling to understand what inherently makes me more deserving of a warm and comfortable bed than my sweet little friend or anyone else for that matter? He didn’t ask for war it was brought to his home by other people and this is the safety he gets??? I’m confused because the last time I checked refugees are victims of war and persecution not criminals. Actually criminals get better treatment then this because they are offered 3 meals a day, a pillow for their head, a shelter from rain…

I have been volunteering here in Serbia for over a week now working with Refugee Aid Serbia who is in partnership with a few other organizations. Every day we serve hot food made by a group called Hot Food Idomeni and most days distribute clothes items as long as we have enough to serve the majority of people who really need it. It is hard for me because I know that sometimes the cup of soup and piece of bread these men and unaccompanied children receive is their only meal. I also know that sometimes these men forgo that meal to get in the line for clothes because it is freezing and socks are important. I try to meet and speak with as many people as I can. I try to offer a smile with their soup. I try to treat them like human beings… it is a really simple concept actually. It is easy to do.

After distribution is over with and I  join these men in a dance party or listen to a person as they tell me about their journey we say goodbye and part ways. I go home to an apartment with some of my best friends from university. I prepare myself a warm meal and I tuck myself into a cozy warm bed. I AM A FOREIGNER IN THIS PLACE TOO. Yet I am met with privilege and openness and freedom. My friends return to an abandoned and disgusting bunker or maybe a railway station, or a parking lot. They are met with cruelty and coldness and I struggle to understand why my foreign passport shelters me in away their’s does not.

For those looking for a Christian response to how we should be handling  this situation scripture is very clear on how foreigners are to be treated. Leviticus chapter 19 is an easy place to look on this ancient Christian practice. Early in the chapter in verse 10 it says, “Nor shall you glean your vineyard, nor shall you gather the fallen fruit of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the needy and for the stranger. I am the LORD your God.” This system of gleaning is much different than charity and is a system deeply rooted within Israel’s history. Gleaning comes from an understanding that nothing is ours to begin with and that everything is God’s creation therefore you leave a space for the foreigner, the poor, the widow, or the orphan to tend to the end of the land and reap the harvest.

‘The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt; I am the LORD your God.

This verse 19:34 is again a practice of obedience. Israelites understood that the way for others to understand Yahweh is through being the extension of  God’s kindness, mercy, and love unto others. There is a collective understanding among Israelites that their history is rooted in being a foreigner and that God was with them then and with them now. When we say yes to following Christ we say yes to joining in on the story that’s been being told from the beginning.

I think my point in this post is that this is literally the call of the church. To glean the space and resources we have and to treat foreigners with the same love and respect our God treats us with. Our history, our shared humanity, is and always has been the tale of foreigners finding refugee in God in and through his people. What is happening right now with this massive Exodus of people migrating into Europe should not be the task of governments and NGOs because their politic is about logic and rankings and systems. These are human people who should not be dangling at the end of such strings. That is where the politic of the church comes in “love them as you would love yourself.” So in the same way we value our security and safety we should be valuing the safety and security of those fleeing violent and awful situations.

I volunteered with dozens of people on Friday morning to pass out blankets and it was rainy and wet and so so cold. We started in the parking lot where about a hundred men were sleeping. They were cuddled up in different groups throughout the lot and we woke them up with news that we had disinfected blankets and socks for them. They woke up and groggily got in line. We noticed that after they walked away with their blankets they began to pray. I prayed too. I prayed that this blanket would keep them warm and offer them some protection. I prayed that more importantly they would know that the whole world was not against them, and that they would know that at least we were in solidarity with them. I prayed that they would have peace where they are, but that systems would come into place that would get them where they wanted to be quickly. And that it would be some place truly safe.

Street art that says: “Vagabondage: freedom of movement” Beograd, Serbia

Forcing people into places of bondage is not the gospel. It’s entirely opposite the gospel actually because within the gospel we find ourselves immersed in a story of freedom where through death we have been made holy, blameless, and without reproach.

God of mercy and grace, Jesus Christ, align my breaking heart to see your grace. Enable the world to bring heaven to what is hell.

God my prayer is that you move with a spirit of openness across the world. May you soften the hearts of the weary, may you challenge your children to love more…to love greater. Take away our fear’s of the unknown and breathe new life upon us so we have the strength and the courage to see things like you do. I pray you protect those in Exodus and that they not only know but trust that you are with them and that you are God.

I want to share another story. There’s another boy who I have met here in Belgrade. He’s 12 years old and also from Afghanistan. His father was killed and almost immediately after he fled and detached himself from his family. This boy is alone though and has been alone for months now. From the moment I saw him we had a very special connection and the love from my heart flowed immediately to his. Everyday we look for each other in the crowd of people and every time we find each other.

I took two nights off after the blanket distribution one night to process and one night so I could attend church. My friend looked for me those two nights and luckily people were able to communicate to him that I was working on other things those nights. When I saw him again we were both very excited. I found someone who could help me translate Pashto.  The boy told me “I have learned to not miss people, so when I say this I mean it: I missed you so much.” It was very sweet and also very hard to hear as I reflect on these words from my sweet little friend. Because literally all I have done to earn the trust and love from this child is smile at him every day and play a hand game with him. I look at him with love, I respect him, I treat him with kindness, I make sure he eats every night. It’s not very much and takes actually nothing from me. My heart breaks that these encounters between us are so significant for him and that in his 12 years of life these are the moments that are special to him not normal to him. That hurts my heart and I hope and pray that I am apart of this child’s life in away that generates a new normal for him.

I don’t consider what I am doing here to be special. It is just what I feel as a person I should be doing because I recognize the way in which this situation is filled with injustices. I don’t do everything perfectly and I wish I could find a better solution to things. However what I am doing that means more than any of the “practical” things I do is meet people where they are at and live with them through this or that part of the journey.

As I have opened myself up to different cultures and different people I have come to find God’s beautiful spirit rested within them. I am constantly challenged and made new by each encounter. I am a quilt and God is my quilter and as I continue to say yes I find myself immersed within the universal quilt God is weaving throughout the universe. I believe each thread is a story ready to be heard and in my silence I get to listen.

as-salaam-alaikum, peace be unto you.

Returning to Greece

Two months is long enough for everything to change, and while I was in America people back in Greece would update me with “changes” but I don’t necessarily think that so much has changed. (Other than the obvious things like almost an entire camp closing and quite a few people getting their calls for relocation.) It is just been two months of the same injustices and two months on top of 7 is a long enough amount of time to grow bitter and cold and frustrated because even though its the same old injustices…well that’s just it there’s been little progress in the way of improving the situation. That’s annoying. 

Reunions are fun though. I love being back with my family. In two weeks I have been in Chicago, Istanbul, Athens, Trikala, Katerini, Thessaloniki, and Beograd. I have been reunited with the people that feel like family and met countless new faces. I have been overwhelmed by love and hospitality and shared in so much laughter and rejoicing. However when that fades it is impossible to forget where we are and to step outside of our reality. We are still in a camp far from our homes with less than adequate conditions and supplies. We are still just listening to people with power talk and do nothing and we are still just waiting. I don’t know what exactly we are waiting on at this point. It is a mixture of praying that the fighting stops and praying that the world starts to realize that human dignity is independent of national borders until the first one happens.

So what do we do while we wait? Well when life gives you lemons you make Kool-aid because life isn’t actually giving us lemons and I brought so much Kool-aid with me from America.

But really that’s what I’ve been doing. I considered my week in Greece to be my holiday on my way to Serbia (where I am now by the way). So I spent it just being back with my friends and listening to what has been going on. I went to the different camps my friends are spread out between and just kind of hung out and tried my best to be light and life in an unbelievably life taking situation. I played a lot of soccer really badly. I lost at checkers a lot. I ate more food than I can describe. I walked along side the river. I had this really amazing photoshoot with my bros. I got my hair braided. I danced a lot and yelled “Wa Allah Lan Kaif” so much my throat hurt. I cried out of joy and some sadness. I sat around fires and watched a lot of Arabic television. I’ve also still been teaching English so it has not been all fun and games, but admittedly it’s been mainly that.

Yeah I don’t know I’ve just been home and it’s been good to be there.

Hey friends here are some of my prayer requests:

-May solutions come quickly to protect people from this awful winter. There is so much talk and very little actions.
-Pray for peace: obviously as time goes by people become less okay with all of the talk and start demanding action or taking actions into their own hands. Pray that God gives us all peace where we are at.
-Pray for the pregnant women. New reports are in describing the utter violation of human rights towards pregnant women: forced c-sections with no pain medication, removal of uterus after birth with no consent, lack of proper time to heal, and denying mother’s requests for milk, diapers, and other essentials.
-Pray for my sweet friend Dered: he will go to Germany on the 30th (as long as all promises are kept). Pray it is real this time. Pray he will be safe with his Father, brother, and sister again. Pray he adjusts to life in Germany and is able to take advantage of all of the opportunities that come before him. And pray I get to visit him so soon because I love that little guy and am so excited for him!!!
-I am currently in Beograd and devastated by the situation here for my brothers and sisters. I will write another blog post so soon about the situation here, but please pray for the people and all the aid workers who work tirelessly with very little support.
-Lastly, this one seems stupid and I hate that I have to ask for this but alas please continue to pray for my own financial support. I need  very little to stay in Greece, but to enable me to do real ministry I need financial support. So again pray with me that those funds come in so I can continue to stay here and teach English and provide meals when the military “forgets” to stop by the camp and get more gloves and more socks to those who really need them. Also pray I continue to encounter the vulnerable and God continues to equip to handle it all.

ALRIGHT FRIENDS THAT IS WHAT I GOT FOR NOW!! HERE’S SOME PHOTOS FROM 1 WEEK IN GREECE ❤

Remembering Alan Kurdi– remembering the little ones

The war continues in Syria with no resolve coming from any of the global powers at play. The devastation of the war is the reality for the ordinary Syrian citizens. Omran and Alan represent the choices for Syrians at this point:

1. Stay knowing that every moment is a gamble on whether or not they will be spared from a war that has no law. Stay where they are the targets and the places put in place to help them like hospitals and humanitarian gifts are also destroyed.
2. Leave and embark on a perilous journey to a closed door.

Syrian refugees are the innocent casualties to an international failure to resolve the conflicts at hand and the inability of the international community to contend with the consequences of our failures. I am sorry but clicking share does not count as action and just because you are far away does not mean that you can continue to claim ignorance when we live with any information we want at our fingertips. But that’s the reality isn’t it we don’t want this information.

Today we remember Alan Kurdi the name behind the image of that little boy who washed up on the Turkish beach last year. The lifeless 2 year old body that made us all care about refugees for a few days before we retreated back to our heightened sense of normalcy. Well Alan Kurdi’s family got on a small rubber boat with him in their arms as they tried to retreat to a sense of normalcy– a reality they did not get to encounter. They took a risk that over 60,000 other middle easterns have taken and many have died doing so.

A year later people are still coming knowing that the risk’s reward is not as sweet. IF they survive the journey at the mercy of a smuggler until they reach the Greek islands; they are then received and effectively stranded until further notice.

It is crowded.

Resources are low.

Help is scarce.

The conditions on the camps are bad, but they are still somehow better. Something that for me was hard to imagine but then I heard the stories. Omran is the story you have heard. He’s the little boy who “survived” but what is living at this point? Omran can’t even ask his brother Ali that question because he died in that bombing. He is a little boy whose been trained not to scream or show fear. Whose eyes only know violence. Who can’t escape danger not in school, not at home, not even a bakery. What is Omran’s future? He is so young and should have all the potential in the world to dream and create realities from his dream. Children in Syria only dream to survive and survive with enough family to not be orphaned. Omran needs the right people to come alongside him in support but the world is afraid to go where Omran is so we leave a 5 year old in the trenches of our war.

In Greece alone there are over 1,500 children unaccompanied right now and I believe we hold some level of responsibility for keeping their hearts pure and for stoping the cycle of violence they are exposed to. We owe it to Alan and we owe to Omran to protect and fight for the children.

There were some tents I went to every single day and spent real quality time with. One of them was a husband and wife with four beautiful children. One day it was just me and the parents and I was holding the 1 year old girl who fell asleep in my arms. We watched the two boys playing outside their father said, “they’ve never had a bike or card games like this in Syria. All they know is guns. They think guns are toys they can’t play with and the only game our children know is war and how to hide from it.” Their boys are 7 and 6 years old and they were always playing. For them the refugee camp is a dream come true in the eyes of a child the refugee camp is simple. They have toys and constant access to friends to play with. They don’t have to shower everyday (because they can’t). They’re safe there.

Yet they come to realize they deserve more like when they cry because they are hungry. They realize they aren’t necessarily healthy when their little cuts get majorly infected and are left untreated. And they cry out for safety when they realize that they are sharing a “bed” often just a blanket on the ground with not only their entire family but also snakes and rodents, who prey on them no less than we do. We have preyed upon their innocence and their worth by teaching them that this is acceptable and that this is all they deserve.

These kids have dreams. I LOVED teaching children classes this summer because I got to take part in something special, which was journeying with these precious angels to achieve their dream someday. It may have been just English or math or a lesson on kindness that day, but it was a start and a very crucial step in equipping them for the future. How? Because I believed in them. They knew that I was an American and they would ask me all the time why I travelled so far from my family? My response would always be “because I love you. Let’s keep working.” And they would look at me with warm smiles and then keep learning.

The reason these images of children grip us so much is because we have an archetype for what a child’s life should look like and what children symbolically represent for us. They represent innocence and purity and joy and they enter into our adult lives and remind us of the simpler things. And well Alan Kurdi and Omran fail to meet that mark and so it hurts us. We all of a sudden sympathize with this situation, but we don’t empathize with the people and their suffering.

The children were always playing and having fun. That is what you would see first when you walked on to a camp was just massive amount of children running around. From far away they are enjoying a game of soccer, coloring, the girls would play these little sing song games and it would look so fun because it was fun. Kids are able to do something we as adults have forgotten how to do and that is to play, to pretend, to imagine a world different from reality. I think if kids were given more authority the world would be a different place, but we have failed these children by not protecting them. When you get closer and deeper inside the camps you realize the pretend games they are playing are still really violent. When these kids get upset they hit each other because they don’t know anything else. And when they color pictures you are met with images of people falling off boats or people being killed. They are processing what they’ve been through via play and we continue to ignore it and we take the role of the pretenders and imagine or kid ourselves into thinking they are just playing.

An 11 year old girl, Razan, drew these photos. This one is pretty self evident.

This is how she views each of the borders. The roses symbolize a peace offering… She said “we love them but they hate us”

“This was my home, I lived here.”

But that little girl who opened up to me about the gruesome treatment she endured in Greece always smiled and always met me with a hug. She is my sister. All of the children I met this summer are my brothers and sisters and I will forever walk with them in hope. But I also want to continue to be an advocate on their behalf. I have met children and heard stories from children who have and continue to encounter such horrendous evil. I don’t want to believe that Alan died for this. I don’t want to believe that Omran lived for this.

There have been far too many Alan Kurdi’s since the lifeless body of Alan Kurdi washed up on a beach in Turkey. There have been far too many Omran’s. We do not know their names and we do not know their stories but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. The only thing we do know is that Syrian children are damned if they do and damned if they don’t.

This is not Jesus. Jesus is not war. Jesus is not violence. Jesus is not closed borders. Jesus is not fear. Jesus is love. Jesus is courage. Jesus is hope. Jesus is love. May we remember Alan Kurdi not for dying but allow him to be our reminder that we need to act in love. Even when that love burdens us or asks us to let go of ourselves for the sake of the other.

May we love without borders.

May we make peace in this life for the sake of the life to come.

Shalom && Amen.

here are some groups that work to keep children safe on the camps and in Syria:

https://www.whitehelmets.org (the people who go where no one else will go and rescues people from rubble and war torn places.)

https://www.moas.eu (meets people at the shores, gives them resources, and helps them get to a camp)

http://www.karamfoundation.org/back-to-school-1/ (they are rebuilding schools in Syria and strive to get children learning again)

http://www.savethechildren.org/site/c.8rKLIXMGIpI4E/b.7998857/k.D075/Syria.htm