Crossing Language & Culture ... and Making Friends

I spent my Friday at Franklin & Marshall college, for a conference about refugee resettlement in Lancaster. We had a fairly large group of people who are serving refugees in a variety of ways, and we came together to learn how we can better serve and assist the people that we work with. 

I loved the wide variety of people we had - Nepali people, a Iraqi couple, a speaker from Burma, a family from the Congo; teachers like myself who work with non-English speakers, folks who help them find homes in the United States, people in the health field who assist refugees in the confusing maze of healthcare.  

What really inspired me was getting to share ideas, challenges and thoughts with so many other volunteers who are working with refugees also. In the last session, we broke into groups of seven, and discussed our city: how are we helping refugees? How are we failing? Are there some things we could do better? Strengths? Weaknesses? 

We came together again, and the staff at F&M put all the ideas into a powerpoint presentation. I was really inspired by the ideas and challenges! Here's a few of our thoughts:

- In Lancaster city alone, we have so many resources that could be utilized. There's many volunteers and several organizations dealing with refugee resettlement, and yet as we were interacting at the conference, we were meeting each other for the first time! (On a personal level, I met a teacher that is working with the same refugee family that I'm tutoring. Neither of us were aware of each other. Now that we've met, we can partner together, share ideas. ) If those of us who are working with refugees were aware of each other, we could better direct our people to the volunteers who would be able to help them. I'm a teacher; I can't help Didi with his taxes. But if I knew someone who could, I could direct him to that person. 

- What about a community center, where we would bring together the various specialties? We don't know where the community services are! If we had a center to direct the refugees to - whether the need be teaching, ESL, driving help, healthcare, etc. - there wouldn't be as many gaps and unfulfilled needs.

-Another thing that we talked about was the language problem. We need to be very sensitive and willing to speak slowly, listen carefully, and not to be afraid to repeat to make sure we got the point across. Possibly something we said could be misunderstood, or mean a totally different thing to our non-English friends. 

It was a exciting conference. I made numerous international friends from around the globe, who are now living in my city. I learned more about how to help my refugee friends. I can hardly wait to head into Lancaster city again this week - but wait, this time I have two families to visit, not just one! :) 

Strangers ... or my Neighbors?

Egypt. Syria. Iraq. Iran. Jordan. What do you feel when you hear of those places ... when you pick up a newspaper, and see a photo of a crowd of nameless Syrians holding signs scrawled with unreadable Arabic script? When your friend gets deployed overseas to some far-off land that is only a hard-to-pronounce name to you? What about when your new neighbor moves in next door, and you discover that they're refugees from Iraq, fleeing war and turmoil?

Maybe you have had a experience like I have. Maybe you were a typical American, living the typical American life, sitting in your far-removed living room watching bombs drop on some country that you never knew existed before.  Maybe you were like me - a 10 yr. old, watching the destruction on television. Maybe, like me, you thought the orange flashes that lit up the night sky over Baghdad were nothing more than that - pretty light in a dark night.

Until you realized that it was not a pretty light. It was no fireworks display. It was war. And war means death. It means lives, torn by loss. People who would never again see the sun rise. Fathers, taken from their wife and children. Suddenly, those streaks of light seemed so senseless.

I remember lying in bed at night, seeing those light flashes when I closed my eyes. Seeing the pleading eyes of the Iraqi children. Thinking of Iraqi fathers not unlike my own. I remember running into a Middle Eastern family at the local WalMart.  I remember distinctly the fear in their eyes as they interacted with my people - knowing that my people were at war with their people.

Yeah, I was really young. I didn't know much. But I prayed a prayer back then that I have never stopped praying - "Oh God, when I'm old enough, send me over there! I want to help those people!"

I think we too easily let distance, lack of knowledge or fear put a barrier between us and the nations ... and our international neighbors. Specifically our Middle Eastern neighbors.

Did you ever stop to think how it would feel to be in their shoes? To be dropped into a nation whose language you cannot understand, whose culture is shockingly different, whose clothing is scandalous compared to what you are accustomed to? What if you couldn't read the labels on the various food products? What if you weren't certain what kind of currency use, or what the monetary value was of each bill? What if riding the bus was the biggest hurdle you could imagine crossing?

That Middle Eastern family you just walked past on the street - they're living here because they were hunted like dogs in their own nation. They have very few friends in America. They've caught every flu and cold since they moved to the U.S., and so have missed alot of their English classes. They are ashamed of their inability to understand or to communicate in English. They would be delighted to have a friend who they know truly loves them - in spite of their poor English.

Those strange-looking ladies two blocks down - the ones with the headscarves - they're living in America, seeking higher education. One is married and has three little children who demand her attention. Recently their homeland was at war. All of the resources they had to their name were suddenly unavailable, as the leader of their nation froze all assets, and though they diligently worked two jobs at night, it was not enough to pay tuition. Nor to provide sufficient food for the family.  They were desperate. They had never experienced this sort of difficulty before. They didn't know where to turn. They felt very alone in this strange country.

Story after story after story, of people ... refugees, immigrants ... real people with real lives, with real pain, and real needs. I think we need to throw our lives into their lives - be willing to hurt with them, be willing to risk being misunderstood, be willing to give our time and our money. The world is at our doorstep - oh Lord, give us Your eyes, and let us see the world around us like You do! 

Glimpses of Syria

 Syria. It's been in the news constantly the past while. We all know that there's fighting. Killing. Death. Uprising. Protesting. Maybe we don't know all the why's of what's going on. Maybe we've taken a minute to read a news report, or to pray for the Syrians who are experiencing the horrors of civil war.

Do you feel like it's removed from your daily life? Like you just can't imagine it?

Dawn has come again. You're awake, though weary after another restless, cold night. The fear of yesterday plagued your night with dreams … full of terror. You're hungry, thirsty, weary and cold. Your brother was killed four days ago, brutally murdered as he attempted to flee to safety; there was no funeral. In shocked silence his body was buried quickly, unceremoniously, under the guard of loyal friends. It is necessary to remain watchful. Even while the burial took place, shots were heard nearby. The tension never ends. Syrians are calling it a genocide. 

Your normal routine is a thing of the past. Tears fill your eyes as you go out on the streets. Houses and buildings that were once beautiful are now reduced to shambles, pockmarked with huge holes. Bricks and broken shards of rock and metal litter the street. Blood stains. Used shells. The silence is deafening. Those who have not fled the violence are fearful to leave their houses, choosing to remain out of sight. Establishments are shut down. Busy streets are now empty, littered with the evidence of war.

Then you see a child, standing in the middle of the street. She is beautiful, so innocent, surrounded by destruction ill-fitting with her beauty. Her simplicity and happiness in the midst of death and pain tears at your heart – you wish to take her, protect her, keep her safe from the horrors of what your city is enduring. She is holding a metal pan, reaching her arms out to the sky. She is so thirsty that she is willing to risk her life to catch a few snowflakes, to melt and to quench this terrible thirst. 

Her mother and baby brother cower inside the basement of their house. Father was killed in the fighting last week. He went out to find food to feed his hungry family, and he never came back. She smiles, oblivious to any threats around her. Her smile seems to betray her inner strength; she has not given up hope. She is alive. She is Syrian.

A hour later, fighting breaks out on your street, and the dreaded shelling begins afresh. You turn to flee, only to be knocked unconscious and thrown to the ground by a bomb exploding nearby. You lie on the street until you regain consciousness. Pain wracks your body, and you know it is impossible to try to walk to safety. You are alive, but just barely. Involuntary tears run down your face as the pain becomes nearly unbearable. You must get medical help – but there is no such aid.

Would you be horrified if I told you that this story has been repeated over 7,500 times? That over 500 of the casualties were children? And over 64 of those killed were mothers?

It's true. And this story continues today … right now as you're reading this. Syrians are living out something that we Americans cannot fathom. They're hungry. Thirsty. There is snow on the ground, and they have no electricity. No heat. The wounded suffer without adequate medical assistance. They are being killed by the hundreds every day. Children are dying simply due to lack of food and water.

And they feel totally forgotten – or ignored – by the world. They feel alone. They are living this tragedy without anyone to encourage them. One citizen writes from Syria a day ago: “God is the only one who cares. We are alone.” Is that true? Can we let that be true?  

This story is compiled from numerous accounts from the front lines in Syria. It's fictional, in that it is not about a single, real person. Rather it has been compiled from the lives of many Syrians who are living this nightmare, and who survived – so far - to tell their story.

I write this so you can know in a personal way what so many people are experiencing daily. I write so that you will never again be able to read a news report without feeling the pain and agony of a people not so unlike our own - and that it would drive you to action. Above all, I write so that you will pray, and that you will pray from a heart that has felt the pain of Syria. I believe Jesus weeps over Syria. Do we?