Tag: Humanitarian aid

Scraps from the Table

Published on by Marilyn2 Comments

seat at the table

“Pity and what it offers are scraps from the table. Justice is a seat at the table.”*

Iraq, Lebanon, Jordan.

Three vastly different countries with different histories and different politics. They don’t even speak the same dialects of Arabic, but they are lumped together in the two-dimensional view that the Western world has of the Middle East.

I have a limited perspective, one that is confined to brief visits, cups of strong tea or Arabic coffee, and conversations of the heart. But in this limited perspective, I am reminded again that refugees are not to be objects of pity, hanging around like dogs to get scraps of charity. They are people of dignity and worth, people who have tenaciously clung to life and hope. Why would I pity someone who is so much stronger and more courageous than I am?

But this is not necessarily the attitude of others or of governments. An excellent article in Foreign Policy speaks to the danger of pity:

The Global North is building fences, deporting children, stymieing the progress to safety of war refugees from Syria, South Sudan, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Europe is paying Turkey to play bouncer and keep asylum-seekers outside its borders. The settled West is telling migrants: We pity you, but we don’t trust you, and we want to keep pitying you on your shores rather than welcoming you to ours.

The author goes on to say:

Rootlessness — the implied weakness of it — is treated as a failure. That is plainly schizophrenic: In a world where one in seven people is displaced, the failure must be of planetary scale. It belongs to all of us. This is a century of dislocation not merely of body and home, but also of empathy, dignity, compassion.

We in the West are tutored well in our attitudes toward refugees and migrants – tutored by a fear-mongering media, tutored by law makers and wanna be law makers who speak without facts and spread misinformation. As the author of the article I cited above says: “The West is telling migrants: We pity you, but we don’t trust you….”

Three years ago, I wrote an article called “You Can’t Empower Those you Pity.” I think about it today as I mull over how I want to portray the people I met and the stories I heard. Because if I create a narrative of pity, then I will have failed.

Pity reduces people to failures who somehow couldn’t hold it together enough to stay rooted. Pity is the enemy of compassion.

Pity insults. Pity humiliates. Pity sees others as ‘less than’ not ‘equal to’ or ‘above’. While compassion is a vital part of love and moves us to action, pity looks on as a superior bystander.

Pity is scraps from the table.

I don’t know a lot, but I do know that refugees need to be given a seat at the table. They need our partnership, our compassion, the best of what we can give. Otherwise we all lose. 

“Unless the world finds compassion for this new communality, learns to make sense of one another’s voices, its humanity will perish.”

“Dispossessed is an identity of disempowerment, but it is a powerful identity. Borders may temporarily hold back the flow of humans adrift, but in a world where we are so tightly and dizzyingly interwoven, physical boundaries are far less obstructive than the lasting confinement of imposed narratives.”

*paraphrased from a tweet by Lindsey Hunt at Harvard Medical School Primary Care Center.

Note: Would you consider donating to schools for Syrian refugee children in Lebanon? Read more here! 

It’s a Baby!

Published on by Marilyn4 Comments

 

Om Ali 5

I have several friends who have had babies in the past year. These babies are beautiful — a couple of them boys, a couple of them girls. I watch in amazement as they grow week by week – one week soft, sweet-smelling lumps that look around at the world they came into in wonder; the next week smiling, laughing, interactive personalities. It is a miracle, this human growth and development.

All of these babies have something in common – they were born into families that had homes and jobs, friends and family. They were born into place. None of the couples are migrants or refugees, they are not displaced.

But babies don’t choose when and where they come into the world. Babies are born into the best of circumstances and into the most difficult of circumstances.

This is what I think about as I hold Om Ali’s tenth child, a little girl named Salaam. A little girl she has named Peace. Traditionally, women are called by the name of their oldest son, so Om Ali literally means “Mother of Ali.” It was easy to guess the name of her oldest son.

We pulled up to the set of tents around noon time. “They won’t want early visitors,” said our Jordanian friend. I smiled – I’m the same way. Don’t come early. I won’t be ready.

Om Ali came out to greet us, a bright purple turban around her head. In any language or culture, this woman would be a strong, vibrant force.

The group of five or six tents could hardly be called a camp. They stood, haphazard, some of them with large UNHCR emblems, others with billboards providing shelter. Like many of the Syrian refugees we met in Lebanon, this group were also Syrian farmers. They had come from Syria and settled outside of Amman with hundreds of others. At some point, the government made the decision to move all the refugees to a camp in the middle of the desert, a camp called Azraq. Om Ali said it was terrible. A camp in the middle of the desert, the sun beating down all day, no running water, no electricity. So this group took it into their own hands and moved back to Amman. They set up near a factory where the men could occasionally work for one Jordanian Dinar an hour. That’s the equivalent of one dollar and forty cents. Other men found work in a market near by.

Om Ali had delivered baby Salaam just a month before. As I rocked the baby, she told us the story of coming from Syria. “The Jordanian government has been very good to us. We have not gone hungry and we have been safe. The Syrians at Azraq Camp are not happy. But we are happy.” We asked her about the tent –when the rains and snow come, does it keep dry? “Mostly. There is a thick cloth, then plastic, then another thick cloth. It mostly leaks in the corners.” Her tent was like so many others. Clean and simple, thick carpet on the floor and cushions around the sides. Blankets were piled in a corner, pulled out every night to keep the family warm. An old television sat on the one shelf in the room, it’s antenna reaching up toward the ceilin. A lone light bulb hung down from the middle of the tent. “Mostly we have electricity in the winter. It goes off in the summer.” Like the refugees in Bekaa Valley, they too pay for the land that their tent sits on. They pay for the electricity and water that they use as well. Because this group of tents is not an official camp, Om Ali says they get no refugee benefits. “We lost our papers because we moved back to Amman.” But what to do? There is no work in the desert. There is no future in the desert. In the city, at least there is hope for the future.

Baby Salaam woke up in my arms and looked at me in horror as if to say “You’re not my mother!” Om Ali expertly lifted her up and began to breast feed, immediately quieting her wails. Om Ali’s oldest son, Ali, lived in the tent next door with her daughter-in-law. A baby had been born early that morning and her daughter-in-law was already back in the tent. When they have to, they seek care at a hospital near by but it costs and so the sooner the new mom could get back to her tent, the better. The new baby had joined a one and a half year old girl – Maryam. Maryam came to my lap, sitting contentedly, blissfully unaware of the new-born bundle of competition next door.

Babies were born at Azraq camp too, Om Ali told us. And they don’t always live. It’s hot and sometimes the mothers can’t nurse so the babies die of malnutrition and dehydration.

I thought back to my own experiences of giving birth, in beautiful birthing rooms with rocking chairs and wall paper; in a clean, well run hospital in Pakistan; in a hospital on the Nile River in Egypt — all so different from what I knew of this new mom’s situation. I longed to go next door and check on her, make sure she was okay, that her uterus was going down appropriately and that she was safe. But if there is one thing I know, you respect the privacy of those you don’t know. I was a stranger to this extended family.

Our Jordanian friend indicated it was time to go and so we asked how we could pray. How could we remember them? How could we pray for them?

Pray for safety. Pray for peace. Pray that we can return to Syria. Don’t forget us. 

The same prayer request outside of Amman that we heard in the Bekaa Valley. A prayer that echoed from Syria to Iraq to Lebanon to Jordan and back to Syria.

We had brought baby kits, blankets, and hygiene kits so as we left we asked them to come out to the car. There we loaded their arms with the little we had brought. I hugged and kissed Om Ali – first one cheek, then the other. And then again. As though we couldn’t get enough of each other.

Pressing my cheek against hers, I repeated over and over “Allah ma’ak. Allah ma’ak.” 

God be with you Om Ali.

Note: If you are just coming by, this week I am writing stories from our time in Lebanon and Jordan. If you would like to give to refugees in Jordan, we are working with Conscience International to send funds.

Valley of Weeping

Published on by Marilyn5 Comments

We arrived in the Bekaa Valley and immediately felt the temperature change. It was cold and damp, the sun hidden behind a grey cloud. We entered a cold, concrete warehouse full of large, blue bags and boxes. This is where food and supplies are stored for refugees in the area. A truck was parked outside and volunteers were busy filling it with bags and boxes, all part of todays food distribution.

Inside the building we met Bashir, the director of Heart for Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley location. He explained to us that this is the hub for the 13 camps and thousands of refugees that they have committed to working with in the area. We would be going to visit a school and then head to a camp where we would be part of a regular food distribution. Along the way, we would meet and hear the stories of a few refugee families.

The school was a few miles away and up a gravel road. A mural on the outside, painted in primary colors, brought a bright splash of color to an otherwise bleak building. The inside, as though defying the outside to determine its fate, was full of life and learning. The school principal explained that the school focused on the neediest kids, kids who were orphans or who had lost at least one parent in the Syrian conflict. There was room for 75 kids and he said that parents are constantly pleading with them to accept their children. Many of the refugee kids have no opportunities to go to school and have now missed two to three years of critical learning. No school means long days at refugee camps with hundreds of children. No school means a generation lost to learning the basics.

We visited each classroom, watching dedicated teachers, some of them refugees themselves, focus on English, Arabic, and Mathematics. I longed to whisk some of the kids away and soak them in a hot tub for hours. It’s hard to keep clean with no running water, and kids around the world attract dirt like magnets attract metal.

Our next stop was at a camp around fifteen minutes away. The camp had 165 tents and with an average of ten people per tent, hundreds of residents. The food and supplies truck had already arrived and men were busy unloading. We received instructions: Each family would get one bag of food that contained sugar, tea, lentils, salt, rice and a few more basic supplies. Added to that we put three containers of oil, a bottle of dishwashing liquid, and soap into a bag. We got to work filling bags while the volunteers called a member of each family over to receive their allotment.

Most of the families from this camp came from farming communities in Syria. They are used to hard work, and life has never been easy for them. But refugee status has added a whole new level of ‘hard’ to their existence. Each family pays for the tents that they live in, $600 per year to use the land. The camp is isolated, far away from any stores or businesses. Men try to find work, but it is limited to informal arrangements as they don’t have legal status to work. Being paid ‘under the table’ means that you have no rights to argue your pay. You take what you get and move forward.

While the food distribution continued, we walked through the camp to visit a family. Taking off our shoes, we walked across the carpeted ground and sat on pillows set up around the sides of the tent. We asked the family their story. They were farmers in Syria near Aleppo — the family had 1500 olive trees that they tended and used as income generators. They lived simply, but the olive trees had been in the family for generations. With ISIS coming in and wreaking havoc, they fled to nearby Lebanon and had been at this camp for over 15 months. The olive trees were gone now, chopped up for firewood, no longer a living thing offering fruit and oil.

The extended family was large and growing, with a pregnant daughter-in-law as well as other family back in Syria.

Just one family. Just one story. But symbolic of so many more. Olive trees gone to waste, trees that had stood for generations helping a large farming family survive. Gone. Tragically cut down by people who care nothing for life. A family displaced, living in extreme cold and extreme heat in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon.

We left the family, knowing we had so little to give. Now, a week after leaving Lebanon, I write this so I remember. So the pictures stay in my heart and mind a little while longer, so that I don’t forget. The rallying cry of these refugees is “Don’t forget. Don’t forget us. Remember us. Pray for us. Tell our stories.” And so I must.

We said our goodbyes and left the valley in late afternoon, driving up through a mountain pass where a thick fog blurred the valley below. Looking out the window, vision blurred, I thought about a Psalm I memorized years before:

How blessed is the man whose strength is in You,
         In whose heart are the highways to Zion!

Passing through the valley of Baca they make it a spring;
         The early rain also covers it with blessings.

They go from strength to strength,
         Every one of them appears before God in Zion.*

I look at the history of the verse and understand that historically this is a valley of weeping. And so these refugee tents full of people are scattered across this valley of weeping, this valley of tears. I can only pray that along with the tears is a God who sees and remembers, a God who will turn this valley into blessing.

*Psalm 84:5-7

Note: This week I hope to relay several stories from our time in Lebanon and Jordan. Thank you for your interest.

Turn the Whole World Upside Down

Published on by Marilyn6 Comments

Three years ago an eye doctor named Tom Little was killed in a massacre of 10 international aid workers in Nuristan province in the country of Afghanistan. The story made international headlines as  the largest massacre of aid workers at the time of the entire Afghan conflict, causing complete strangers to the country and the people massacred to pause and take an inventory of their lives.

Tom Little had been in Afghanistan for over 33 years. He was from Albany, New York, son of an eye doctor and he loved Afghanistan; loved the Afghan people. To say that Tom Little lived outside of any box is a serious understatement. A film called The Hard Places is being produced on the life of Tom Little. In an interview about the film, Dan Swinton, the producer, said that all the news stories of the massacre focused on the last 5 minutes of his life. He wanted to find out more about the other 33 years.

I’ve watched the trailer for the film The Hard Places five or six times — and every time I cry. The film challenges my comfort, my security, most of all challenges me to live life fully wherever I am called to go.

Now this is a hard call in my current situation. I make no secret of the fact that my government sponsored cubicle is often a hard place to be. I feel underused and unproductive. I often question whether I’m making a difference.

My government sponsored cubicle is not sexy. It is not a place where the type of headlines that mean something to eternity emerge. It is a place that tests my patience, challenges my creativity, and often defeats my spirit.

But it is currently my reality. It is where God has placed me. And the call to live fully is no less applicable to me as it is to those in far harder places, far more difficult situations. I am weak in this context – and God delights to make the weak strong.

In the trailer, Libby Little, Tom Little’s wife who was by his side throughout their years in Afghanistan, is heard reading a poem by Hannah Hurnard:

O blessed are the patient meek
Who quietly suffer wrong;
How glorious are the foolish weak
By God made greatly strong;
So strong they take the conqueror’s crown,
And turn the whole world upside down.

The world is not changed through one momentous event, it is changed through the often boring, simple acts of obedience that I am daily called to. Arguably, Tom Little’s life did not affect the Afghan people through his last 5 minutes of a martyr’s death, it affected the Afghan people in his daily choice to deliver excellent eye care to people in need.

It is in the strength of God as shown through the weakness of men that the world is turned upside down. So it is today that I am called to be obedient to what I know. No more and no less, trusting the outcome to a faithful Creator in doing what is right. 

What about you? Do you long to turn the whole world upside down but can’t even face a Monday morning? 

Blogger’s note: I encourage you to watch this trailer – just be warned that it changes you. For more on the film or to support the project click here. 

Monday is always  better with Muffins! In Stacy’s words, todays muffins are “chalk full of nuts and flavor!” They are Browned Butter Pecan Muffins. Enjoy!

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Beyond the Headlines – A Dramatic Ending

Published on by Marilyn8 Comments

At the end of October when the apple season was just ending and leaves were still a golden-red I blogged about the high cost of service.

The basis for my post was a story that I described as ” tucked in the back pages of newspapers from various news organizations around the world” about three aid workers who who were kidnapped in Somalia. My friend Pegi had brought the story to my attention. She had a personal connection with the family of one of the people kidnapped and was praying fervently and feeling deeply for this woman and those who loved her. At the time of the story the identities of the three had not been released so they were reduced to “anonymous aid workers” stuck on page three of a newspaper. A day later one of the three was released while two remained in captivity: Jessica Buchanan from America and Paul Thisted from Denmark.

And then the story faded and died, tossed out in the recycling bin with old papers. Yesterday in a dramatic resurrection that took the coveted spot on front pages of newspapers and primetime news networks was the ending to the story. Arriving by helicopter the Navy Seals raided the compound where the two aid workers were held and rescued them, flying them back to their respective homes.

This story made the headlines and rightly so, but beyond the headlines were months of waiting and longing. Beyond the headlines, were families that didn’t even make it to page three of any newspaper, holding out hope that these people who they loved would be released. Three long months of hoping, praying, waiting, and pleading. Three long months of little news where many had forgotten the story existed, but it was still going on.

It got me thinking about all the stories where we hear the beginning, and sometimes the end, but never the middle; those “beyond the headlines” stories. For every headline story of a murder, there are two families beyond whose lives are interrupted with pain – that of the victim and that of the perpetrator. For every headline sex scandal, there is a couple beyond whose marriage is severely compromised and badly in need of healing. For every headline of a sports victory, there are athletes beyond who sweat and train and discipline their bodies.

In a world where bad news floods our inboxes and ear drums, the dramatic ending to the kidnapping is good news. This is a story of bravery and compassion on the part of the aid workers, and skill and courage on the part of the rescuers. It’s also a story of a lot of beyond the headlines prayer, hope and courage.  It’s a good story. It’s a story that makes you think about hope and hope fulfilled. It’s a story with an impact that will reach far beyond any headlines.

Bloggers note: You can read the original blog post here

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Beyond the Headlines – The High Cost of Service

Published on by Marilyn8 Comments

Three days ago, tucked in the back pages of newspapers from various news organizations around the world, was a story about three aid workers kidnapped in Somalia. You may have missed the story – I certainly did. Maybe it’s because three is not a critical mass. Maybe it’s because the story is not sensational enough for our tired ears. Maybe it’s because the aid workers don’t know the right people. For whatever reason, we have not heard much beyond these short stories.

The aid workers were from a Danish organization and included an American woman, a Danish man, and a Somali man. They were abducted mid-afternoon on Tuesday by Somali gunmen. The workers are part of a humanitarian effort to remove landmines and bring mine risk education to the area. Somalia has struggled for years to have a proper government and the Shabab as well as other extremist groups are active in different territories.

So what brought it to my attention? On of my friends and readers taught the sister of the American aid worker. It’s a Kevin Bacon case of six degrees of separation and reminds me that the world is sometimes smaller than we think. As I read the little information available about these workers, I am reminded that there is a high cost to service. The words in newspapers describing the situation are not adequate to convey what brings people to leave a place of comfort and help in a desperate situation. Words are not enough to communicate how worried the families are in this situation, how desperately they want to know that their daughters or sons, sisters or brothers are safe, and how the nights are sleepless as families pray that they will be released unharmed.

There is a high cost to service. For every story that ends up in the headlines or in a best-selling book, there are hundreds more untold stories of people sacrificing to serve, motivated either by idealism, humanitarianism or God.

I want to end with the words from my friend with hopes that they will compel some readers the way they compelled me. She writes this:

I read or hear these things on the news and have grown somewhat callous to the reality of the individuals and their crises.  Then suddenly it becomes personalized and I am ashamed to not have been concerned earlier.  It is such a strange world we live in… and yet the fact that God brought this to my attention makes me think that He would have us praying for this dear girl of faith, as well as her family. As a fellow mom of  “designed to travel” daughters who shares a sense of admiration mixed with  fears that we try to keep in check for our adventurous offspring I ask you to remember this “anonymous aid worker” and those like her in your prayers and ask others to do the same.

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