(I wrote this in March, pre-blog. I've republished it here.)
Amman, Jordan... The pictures on the walls always make us pause.
I'm here in Jordan with twenty volunteers. We've spent the week in small teams, bringing boxes of food to Iraqi refugee families on the poor east side.
And it's the stories of family members that boggle our minds. Their pictures are displayed on the walls of the flats with a black ribbon across the upper left corner… “dead.”
Um Hassan’s family
We met Um Hassan’s son, Fadi, on the street one morning earlier this week. Because of the secret police, young refugee men often avoid the streets.
Refugees are allowed to stay a short while. After that they’re illegal. They can’t go back to Iraq—the religious extremists want their family dead. They can’t work legally. And they find it almost impossible to immigrate to America or any other country.
Our driver-and-translator, a volunteer helping Iraqi refugees in these neighborhoods, rolled down his window to say a few words in Arabic to Fadi. They knowingly smiled at each other.
Six months ago Fadi had spoken to another man who rolled down his window—and he turned out to be secret police. Fadi was asked for his papers. They indicated he was no longer legal, so he was immediately handcuffed and taken to jail to be deported.
Our translator and others sprang into action and spent the next 6 months intervening and raising money to pay fines. Fortunately in this case, they got Fadi released.
As if the family hadn’t gone through enough.
Sitting later in Um Hassan’s concrete-and-chipped-paint flat, we heard their story. Pictures of her deceased 18- and 20-year-old daughters were above her head.
The girls had been employed back in Baghdad doing laundry at a facility that served foreigners. One particular morning the facility bus came, making the rounds, bringing workers to their jobs.
Like any other morning the bus was filled with the chatter of workers saying “hello” and greeting the day. But that morning, halfway into the trip, the bus was stormed by religious extremists.
All aboard were shot and killed.
What in the world do you do after that?
Now the family is in Jordan, along with 1,000,000 other Iraqi refugees. Escaping. Trying to survive. Trying to figure out what to do next.
Many families like Um Hassan’s find small bits of illegal work for small amounts of money. And the humanitarian gifts of caring people around the world literally help keep them alive.
That day we were able to give Um Hassan a box of food that would last her family a few weeks—sponsored by the Movick family of Broomfield, CO.
Our translator read them a caring note from the Movicks, and showed them a Movick family picture. That night we emailed the Movicks a return picture of Um Hassan and her children. In a small way a bond was created.
Light
Even in such awful situations there’s light. And Um Hassan is seeing it, and showing it.
Our translator has been helping Um Hassan and her family since shortly after their arrival. For the first two years Um Hassan was in a dark depression. But he kept urging her toward healing.
“A terrible thing has happened to you and your family,” he would say, “…a terrible thing that will never be explainable. But you must continue to live. Your family needs you to. And the only thing that can help you do that is love... receiving love, and reaching out to love others.”
And Um Hassan began to take those words to heart.
By the time we met Um Hassan she had come far. In fact, she had become a sort-of Mother Hen to many of the poor mothers of her neighborhood. She joined us the remainder of the day, helping us get food to other families in great need.
It was delightful, almost funny. We would be sitting with a family, our translator helping us converse, and Um Hassan would be over in the corner talking on her cell phone, organizing the next moms we would visit.
“Where are you?” she would ask sternly. “If you want food, you and your children must be at your home. I’m going to take them to another family unless you get home!”
Yep. Mothers everywhere.
Hope
Some people ask, “How can one box of food give hope?” I ask the opposite. How can a box of food from a family across the world not give hope? How can you give up when you know there are people thinking of you and wanting to help you, all over the world?
We all wish we could do the big thing. But the biggest things are really done by millions of people doing small things. That’s hope.
Like everyone else I’m tempted to despair. But as I involve donors like the Movicks who sit at kitchen tables and write notes to go with food they’ve sponsored for a refugee family... or those who invest time and money to travel with me... and together we bring help to some of the the poorest situations in over 30 countries, I’m filled with hope.
Because I believe. I believe that in the end love wins. I believe that there is more good in the world than evil. And I believe that when millions of good people do millions of good things, HOPE gets multiplied.
If you haven’t yet, do something to join that bold procession of hope.
You’ll be joining people like Um Hassan and her family.
--Jeff
