Maya, age 7, loves bananas, cartoons and her pink
teddy bear.
She had to leave the teddy bear back in Syria when her family fled
to Lebanon to escape the worsening civil war. “It’s probably riddled with
bullets now,” Maya says. She’s probably right: Homs, the city they left, is now
essentially a pile of rubble.
At least she has a stuffed blue Smurf to keep her company. But she
doesn’t have many human friends her age in the “home” she occupies with her
parents and her teenage brother, Hammoudeh. For more than 1,000 days, they have
lived with other Syrian refugees in the crumbling Gaza Hospital in Beirut. It
ceased to be a medical facility during Lebanon’s own civil war decades ago, but
has played host to generations of refugees from the region’s conflicts.
It’s more comfortable than the tents, sheds and hovels many Syrian
refugees endure in Lebanon. But Maya — a goofy, giggly girl with tons of energy
— feels like she’s growing up in a prison.
“I’m a kid! I want to have fun,” Maya complains. “Who am I
supposed to play with? I’m surrounded by 10 walls. … When I get bored, I go
outside. I don’t find anyone so I come back in. I keep going in, out, in, out.
I drive Mum crazy!”
Syria’s
civil war bled into a fifth year in March, so Maya has little chance of going
home anytime soon. She doesn’t understand the larger
forces that are destroying her homeland, or why she and her brother can’t go to
school, or why her mother seems sad most of the time. She laughs and dreams and
makes the best of an awful situation. But she knows something is wrong with a
world that snatches a home and a teddy bear from a little girl. You can see it
in her eyes.
Let Maya tell you her own story here. It’s one of five
brief, quietly powerful video portraits of Syrian refugees in Lebanon, part of
the Al Jazeera series “Life on Hold.” Watch
them all if you want a glimpse of what it means to live in exile. You can even
post a message to Maya.
You will also meet young Omar, who misses his assistant chef’s job
and his sweetheart back in Damascus. He cares for a leg shattered by an exploding
shell before he fled Syria, reads the Quran, prays, checks out the latest songs
and videos online, and waits. Haifa, a widow who closed the hotel she owned in
Damascus to seek safety for her three children, misses home so desperately that
she wants to go back — even though conditions are far worse now than when she
departed. “At least if I die, I die in Syria,” she says. Hajj, an older man who
cares for his sick wife, wonders if his 200 olive trees have withered and died.
He has lost 38 family members in the conflict.
Al Furati, an award-winning poet and former government worker,
cries for lost friends, co-workers and simple pleasures back home. He worries
about his children missing years of school, part of an entire lost generation
of young Syrians. He sits in a tent with his wife and children, writing
mournful verses late into the night: “Why is my country draped in the black of
night? And why are Syria’s hands hennaed with blood? … Your children are now
crying and your women are wailing, your precious soil is awash with the blood
of your men. I feel your heart is breaking like the valley of lament, I know
that your wound is too deep to heal.”
Those words reminded me of the lament of another refugee poet: “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when
we remembered Zion” (Psalm 137:1 NASB). Carried away into forced exile 26
centuries ago, the psalmist and his Israelite brothers and sisters could only
remember their beloved land — and hope one day to return.
I’ve become acquainted with many refugees
over the years, whether in dusty camps and border towns or after they resettled
in other places — such as the city where I live. They include
Vietnamese, Cambodians, Laotians, Cubans, Afghanis, Iraqis, Kurds,
Palestinians, Burmese, Nepalis, Syrians. I’m proud to count some of them as
dear friends. Before our own children came along, my wife and I were foster
parents to two Vietnamese refugee kids for a time.
I don’t pretend to understand the refugee
experience, however, or the trauma, despair, isolation and loss that come with
it. It is impossible to fathom unless you have gone through it.
But God understands. He loves. And He gives
hope. He commands again and again in His Word that we welcome and shelter the
alien, the stranger and the outcast. Jesus Christ, who experienced rejection by
His own that we can only imagine, calls us to befriend the wanderers of this
world — and there are more of them than ever.
Millions of Syrians have been driven from
their homes since the civil war began. If you want to help them, or any
refugees, here are 10 practical
ways to do so. And here are a few more: Listen to their stories. Cry
with them. Be a friend. Offer the hope only God can give.
Love transcends all borders.
