Wings

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all” - Emily Dickinson

It was only a paper plane, but for Muhammad it was a memory.

As I folded it and placed it in his outstretched hand, a wave of foreboding washed over me. Planes mean something different to Syrians. Shrugging, I figured it had to be more benign than the paper guns he had all too expertly fashioned moments beforehand.

He flew it around the tent, grinning as he watched it's lilting flight path. Pausing, he balanced the plane in his hand and nestled the double barreled gun he'd made under it. “This is how the planes shot us.” He demonstrated how his government's air force dropped missiles on his home in Syria. “Boom! Boom! Boom!” His wrist contorted as he showed how the planes doubled back to finish the job.

I've worked with kids who've gone through significant trauma, but never anything like this. How do you process with a child why their government dropped missiles on their house? For him violence on such a grand scale is normal. How does that affect his heart?

I left that day feeling sad for him and sadder still because he had no tears, no expressions of, “That was wrong that happened to me.” I can't erase his painful memories nor the fact that he hasn't seen his parents in 1.5 years.

Later on we visited his family again. By now we'd grown more in our relationship. We'd heard about some pigeons Muhammad kept as pets. So, despite hating pigeons I asked if he'd show them to me. He hopped up and carried one in. A white dove.

This time it was Muhammad that handed me the winged object. The bird in it's alarm defecated on me and flapped madly until Muhammad showed me how to properly hold it. We all giggled as I did my best to not appear completely terrified.

He then recounted how his other pigeon had flown away. Those familiar to avian husbandry know that a bird's wings must be clipped so it doesn't fly away. Muhammad, sweetheart, didn't want to hurt his pigeons so he glued their wings instead. Of course, in time the bird was able to loosen the glue and flee.

This little boy's life life is marked by brutality. Yet when it came to him to deliver a measure of that brutality to another he couldn't do it. Clipping a bird isn't unreasonable; yet his heart remained soft.

An intrinsic understanding of what is ok and what isn't has been placed within us. This remains despite all – even if we ourselves try to clip its wings. Our souls understand.

Kamen

(Again)

(This was an entry I wrote after our first days in the camps but just never posted)

Fatimah. She's just a little girl, living in a tent with her family in a field. She is one of millions of names written in tidy little rows on sheets of paper. You know, the ones with the light blue logo, the United Nations, they call it. 

United. What does that even mean? Fatimah doesn't know. She doesn't know as she waits with her father in line behind the big truck, the one where the outsiders come and unload supplies. Days like this are exciting because it means the food comes and the smiling foreigners hug and spend a time with her.

Is “united” what the grown ups in her camp are supposed to be? She sees how her neighbor hides her mats and propane when the volunteers come, and then tells the volunteers she has nothing, hoping they will give her more mats and more propane.* That way she can sell them to make a little money. It doesn't seem right to Fatimah, but what is her neighbor to do? No one will hire her husband to work. If they hire anyone, they will take the teenage girls to work in the fields or in the factory, where after working 10 hours, they have earned enough to buy a bottle of shampoo, maybe conditioner. Those girls are cheap, and they work well. But Fatimah's neighbor doesn't have any teenage daughters to send out.

Fatimah is still too young to send out to work, but her turn will come. It will be backbreaking work, but she knows how to work hard. She already does it everyday: cleaning, cooking, carrying water, what ever she is told. If she works in the fields, she will tie a headscarf around her head tightly to cover as much skin as she can. She will still wear makeup and pause in the fields to reapply it because she must look beautiful. Since she will always be working, her only opportunity to find a husband will be if he passes by and sees her in the fields.

When she is married at 14 she and her husband will come back to this same field. Her husband will stand in line behind a truck to get his ration. Maybe this repeat of history is what it means to be united.

*I haven’t seen this in Lebanon, but saw it a lot with refugees in Jordan. 

Mondial

(World Cup)

Korea had the early lead but at halftime the Syrians took over and had the game from there. 

*This happened at the very end of our time in this camp. I risked this huge cultural faux pas of exercising as a female due to our rapport. I blame World Cup fever.

Fard'

(Gun)

The other day I started to watch “The Book of Eli”. That was about the worst mistake of my life. Let's just say I didn't get very far in the movie. The gore, darkness, and the dire world circumstances depicted left me in the emotional equivalent of dry heaving. 

It is at moments like this when I realize how profoundly grieved I am by what the Syrians are going through. 

How we spend our time:

Carding wool.

Listening and sharing as we drink tea together

Making food

Distributing food

Playing with kids and putting on youth camps

Teaching English and learning Arabic!

Keeping a look out for anything we can lend a hand with.

In short, we are just living life with the Syrians, in accordance to the great kindness they are showing by inviting us in.

Medina

(city)

Beirut is a phoenix. There must be scores of writers that have already made this connection, seeing as how the ancient Phoenicians came from this area and the word phoenix is close to Phoenician – the opportunities for parallels and clever play on words are endless. 

I'm just what I am though, so please bear with me. 

I say that Beirut is a phoenix because it has repeatedly risen from the ashes war after war,  suicide bomber after suicide bomber. When you walk through the city, you see bombed out, bullet riddled buildings standing derelict in the midst of a new buildings with an attitude of  “We must just keep going for life must go on.” 

Maybe that is why Lebanon is known for it's love of bling. Get it shiny because life is short. 

The central building is not under construction. It is bombed/shot out.
That won't stop Chevrolet from sidling right up.

This city has gasp! the audacity to have not just a new building rise up out of the rubble, but a luxury building. What panache. What defiance and drive. 

Yella

On the weekends we've been able to take advantage of the extremely low cost of public transportation to explore the country.

(Let's go)

Here's how you travel in Lebanon:

You walk down the street. A dented jalopy comes by, honks and a man leans out the passenger window, “Beirut?” he offers. “Aiwa” (yes) you respond. You haggle over a price, you do your best to be both assertive for a fair price and yet submissive in this patriarchal society.

You get in. The vehicle is completely unmarked. You figure the country is small, the embassy can hopefully locate you if you disappear.

You sit as close to the front as possible or make sure that you are only seated by women. If I have to explain why this is advisable, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you really need to get out more. Sometimes the driver is a gentleman and reorganizes the seating arrangement so you are seated safely.*

The vehicle screams through the mountains to get to your destination. The driving here scares me a good bit. To put that in context, let me tell you that driving in India thrills me and doesn't make me nervous.

The air is a mix of warm bodies, nicotine and nargileh** smoke, and sometimes the music is blaring so loud you're sure you can smell it.

The Lebanese military often uses public transportation as well.

From time to time you pause at a police or army checkpoint. The van pulls into an enclosed area behind metal sheeting. The doors slide open. They lean in with their AK-47's in hand and request your passport. They ask you to take your sunglasses off. They see that eagle crest on your passport and you cease to be a threat. They move on to the others in the vehicle. Others stumble over their answers and get riddled with way more questions than you did. You wonder what is in that man's large black bag. You wonder if it is prejudiced that you are wondering.

The driver speaks no English but by some crazy miracle, you are able to communicate. He drops you off at the destination after you've handed him a wad of Lebanese Lira.

And now, the real adventure begins.

*Let's give credit where credit is due. The men I sat next to were complete gentlemen. Jordan, however, was a different story. 

** Hookah

Coquelicots

The Duke's chapeau, cane, and hunting horn
(to go along with his pack of hounds and extensive hunting grounds) 

Almost a decade ago I was working for a duke and duchess in France. It was, despite the inherent romance and adventure in that sentence, one of the most difficult experiences I have been through. Some days I felt physically ill due to the great difficulty.

As I trudged along, refusing to give up – out of pride, foolishness of youth, or the gritted teeth of sheer will, I began to notice something quite particular. Alongside the roads, in the fields, and all sorts of inopportune places cropped up these exquisite little red blooms. Coquelicots. Poppies.

They were a bonafide weed and likely the bane of some farmer's life, but to me they were beautiful. They represented a will to not only live, but to live vibrantly. “Yeah, we're weeds, and there is no reason why we should be able to thrive in this field - but we do. And we are blooming flaming red. So there!”

For me, coquelicots will always mean hope.

And strangely enough, they bloom prolifically here in Lebanon.

I don't believe that's an accident. 

Mish Nadif

(Not Clean)

The conditions in the camps are harsh. That mud has a glue like consistency and when you get wet there is no way to get dry. 

Elections

Syrian President Al Assad on TV.

 June 3

Syria is having elections. 

There are many ways to define that word.

My Economist loving, wannabe political wonk side longs to drill the Syrians to ascertain their opinions about it all. But that's not why I'm here. I am here to demonstrate love and life to them – bringing up politics just unleashes Pandora's box.

I've been told that when voters go to the polls and ask for help to fill out the ballots, the officials direct them, “Just check here” on Bashar Al-Assad's box.

Syrians have told me they have been granted some form of amnesty that if they return to Syria to vote they will still be able to return here to Lebanon. They are still afraid of attempting this, that there won't be follow through and they'll be punished for having fled in the first place.

Syrians can vote at the Syrian embassy an hour's drive away in Beirut. However, if they are struggling to scrape enough Lira together just to feed their families, paying for gas to vote is their last priority. 

There is support for Bashar.

Many Syrians are afraid to state that they support Bashar Al-Assad, the current president, because they know the rebels will try to kill them. They are afraid to say they support the rebels because they know the government forces will attempt to kill them. 

Shmel, Yemiin...

(Left, Right...)

Mom, remember this clapping game you taught me when I was little? I have Arabicized it and it is making its way through the refugee camps. Who knew it would become such a connector!

Sah?

Making tea in a tent. The hole in the floor by the "wall" is the kitchen "sink".

(Understand?)

I'm trying to decide if I regret telling you about the “Keteer (A Lot)” story.

You see, it's too true. It's too much to hear, even though it is only one thing that has happened to one family out of millions in a similar situation.

These families have demonstrated great trust by sharing their stories. I'm not sure if it is right for me to fling those histories out on the internet to any casual passerby.

Is it better for us to see the reality of the world around us? Or is it a waste because we might still refuse to see beyond arm's length and continue to insulate ourselves in our affluent dream world? The latter is easier but also worse because it means we'll have more to answer for later.

If you read the previous entry, know that I shared something sacred with you. It is a deeply personal story of pain and loss, not to be lightly tossed over your shoulder once you go back to what ever it was you were doing before you landed here. Please promise me that you won't go away unchanged. Promise me.