Windows into a Refugee Soul

I'm currently living in Šid, Serbia for a month to help with the thousands of refugees that are crossing the border on their way to Western Europe. Every day I get the opportunity to love and serve them in various ways. My favorite has been listening to their stories verbally and nonverbally. I'd like to share a few with you.

She was a little girl of about 10 years of age. I first noticed the large tears rolling down her cheeks. Next I took in the fact that her grandfather had her by one elbow and was pulling her across the room toward me; her sleeve pushed halfway up her arm. As she got closer, I noticed the large blisters and the red skin from the third degree burn spanning the circumference of her wrist. One word was said: "Doctor?" I put my arm around her shoulders and led her to the onsite doctor's office. I will not go into how much I disagreed with the doctor's methods, but he was far from gentle. As he stuck a needle into each blister half a dozen times, the little girl didn't even shed many tears or utter a single noise. As he pushed and prodded the water to escape through the tiny holes, I held her close, knowing if I was in that chair I would've been holding back screams and wanting to punch the doctor. She barely even flinched through it all. When I took her back to her mother, her mom didn't even once ask how her daughter was, but rather, upon seeing her, told her to go get something for her little brother. This family is from Afghanistan, a place wrought with pain and suffering. Why coddle your child when they will be growing up in the midst of horrific difficulty? A third degree burn is nothing to someone living in a war torn country and now a refugee!

I sat drinking apple juice in the nearby petrol station on a much needed break. As I finished, my thoughts turned back to the tasks awaiting me outside. Slowly I started the walk back into the camp when I noticed a woman a few years younger than myself sitting behind a light pole weeping. Her head covering hid much of her face, but I could tell something was very wrong as I took a seat next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She didn't speak English, so there was no response to my or my coworker's inquiries. She gingerly touched the side of her face, and I noticed a massive welt partially hidden by her head scarf. All of the sudden two people walked up and explained in Serbian that she had just been shoved down in the middle of the street by her husband. He then proceeded to beat her, punching her repeatedly in the face. We tried to take her to the doctor or seek help of another sort, but she just kept responding: "No, no, no..." with fear in her eyes. To be seen with us or anyone else was to likely invoke another beating from her husband that I am sure was lurking somewhere nearby. Her name and the fact that she is pregnant haunt my thoughts. She represents to me thousands of women worldwide who have no voice, no rights, and seemingly no hope.

The trip from Syria to Germany is a difficult and dangerous one, so I am always surprised when I see someone with a disability or ailment coming through the camp. One small boy in particular caught my eye. He was young, but likely older than he looked. His head was misshapen and very large. First glance revealed that his legs didn't work properly, and his body was smaller than it should've been. He was seated in the middle of the table with his father sitting next to him. People openly stared, but no one had wanted to be seated at the table with them. I eagerly walked over and began to engage the little boy in trying to get him to throw a mandarin to me like a baseball. No words came out of his mouth, just clicks of the tongue and motioning with his eyes that detailed his thoughts. The father spoke no English, but through hand motions and mutual words (family, doctor, Syria) I pieced their story together.  His wife was still in Syria with seven of their eight children. This was his youngest son. The doctor in Syria could do nothing to help this little guy and recommended they go to Germany to get medical help. There was a new tumor growing on the back of the boy's head, and fear shone out of the dad's eyes as he showed it to me. There is a common thought expressed by many organizations at the camp that a lot of the refugees don't take care much for their children. Babies get left behind in the beds when the buses go in the middle of the night. Small children play for hours with us in the tent, and we never once see a parent checking in on them. But as I looked at the relationship between this father and son, tears sprung into my eyes. This little boy had nothing to offer his dad, he couldn't even talk with him or know what was going on. But just like the Good Shepherd leaving the 99 to search for the 1 sheep, this father left his family and risked his life and spent all his finances on the hope of some medical help. The love I saw shining in their eyes when they looked at each other took my breath away. I don't know what the outcome will be, but my earnest hope and prayer is that Love will win!

I've found that I look much younger than I in fact am. After explaining to two 17 year old boys that I could potentially be their mother, they then invited me to sit down with their "family" at their table. Both of these boys were traveling alone, their family all back in Syria. They'd met up with each other and this other family along the way and had adopted each other. I would've never been able to tell that they weren't blood related. Having been through such horrors together, the bond between them was strong. As one boy translated, they began to ask me dozens of questions, eager to know all about this crazy American who'd come to Serbia to help. As I mentioned the death of my mother earlier this year, the boy translating got very quiet and serious. In what was the most sincere sympathy I've ever experienced he looked me in the eye and grieved with me. I was a bit shocked. How could a teenage boy understand loss so well? But as I looked at him, I thought about the war and how he'd just left his family and all that was familiar in hopes of a better life. It is I who has much to learn from these amazing people I meet every day!

I've joked that if I was a refugee I'd be dead by now. Upon arriving here I fell severely ill with what I have witnessed is a common sickness among the refugees. Words can't describe how awful I felt! I can't imagine walking in the snow with little clothing on while being so sick. I can't fathom caring for children when I have no way to provide even their basic needs. I can't picture how I'd keep going when I've not had a bed or shower in over a month. However, I've never once heard any of them complain! As they share their stories the difficulties aren't highlighted nor is sympathy sought. They even try to give to me out of their nothingness. They struggle to communicate thankfulness in their broken English. And every day I walk away humbled... If the tables were turned, I can only imagine I'd be barely making it, completely self-absorbed. But these people, the thousands of faces burned into my memory, are beautiful, and truly I wish I could be more like them!