Fadwa*. Our first visit was two weeks ago to a highly pregnant Fadwa. Today we hold a little Maria in our hands. Perfectly formed. The little hands are a picture of perfection. Small knuckles, small nails. She clasps my finger, barely fitting her fingers around it. We are sitting on UN mats - a grim reminder of the brokenness and realness of their situation. But for a moment, the hurt and the ugliness of humanity fades in the glory of new life. In the beauty of creation. And Fadwa is a worthy mother, her circumstances forgotten. She walks with her head high and smiles quietly content when she holds Maria. A Syrian refugee yes. But also a mother. Because life goes on.
Miriam. 11. On the way to the border with her family, a piece of shrapnel was lodged into Miriam's spinal chord. At the border her parents had to stay behind but because of her injury Miriam was allowed access to medical care and refugee status. Today she sits on a mattress, paralysed from the waist down, seperated from her family. She has a beautiful spirit. One of the men with his skew teeth is full of jokes and she laughs at him amidst the commotion of our visit and her first therapy. Next to Miriam something of the reality of the war becomes so real to me. It breaks me. The surgical scar on her back. The floppy legs. The brave attempt at sitting up straight. The smile. Big eyes that watch us while we are praying.
This is how a life is uprooted by war. We prayed - for healing, but also for grace and comfort and the closeness of God. We loved her. But at times I was so overwhelmed and had to fight against my tears. And in the midst of everything the family that is looking after her and that love her speak of so much more than the one-sided account of war and survival-of-the-fittest. And her brave way of handling everything is so inspirational. Miriam.
A few weeks later we take her through some strengthening exercises on her wheelchair. She has to fight to make it up the hill, gritting her teeth and working hard. There is a sense of accomplishment at reaching the top of the small hill but also a deeper underlying reality that it is difficult, that her life is different. Later my teammate pushes her wheelchair down the road and starts running with her at full speed. She squeals with delight at something so simple... May she run again Jesus.
Fatima. I meet Fatima at an English conversation class. With her is her 1-year-old daughter, a picture with her black curly hair. Fatima has been in Jordan for one year. She is seperated from her husband. We ask each other the mandatory lesson questions. At the "where do you live" she answers with the town in Syria before she corrects herself, "But now, Mafraq." If it wasn't for this question it might have been a normal conversation. Two young women getting to know each other. She knows some English because she enjoys watching movies, she asks me why I am white if I'm from South Africa and tells me of a guy she likes with a shy smile. But its the slight hesitance and thought at the simple question of where she lives that sticks with me. The simple reality of being uprooted from what you call home. That and the joint mothering and solidarity of her, her sister and their mother. And the big innocent eyes of the small curly-head girl. Uprooted.
We are standing in the living room of Sana's apartment. In the room next door lies little piles of clothes and not much else, possibly evidence of a family that left their country with nothing but a suitcase. Here the mattresses are moved to the side and the outer garments of the women taken off in this safe space of home. We are doing some dancing exercises and laughing at our lack of skill. Sana is a delight, slightly overweight but enjoying every minute of the hour. Her laugh like a bell that rings out clearly and beautifully. Later she serves us strong arabic coffee in beautiful small orange cups. The picture of Sana that stays with me is one of her sitting cross-legged on the mat, laughing with her mouth open and head tilted back while she is cutting some oranges and apples to share with us. The ease with which she mothers her four children. The picture of her jovially inviting us back so that she can cook for us even if we cannot understand each other. Of hope that shines brightly in her house.
Busy with distribution we stop in front of a busy restaurant with loud music and many cars. But we walk to the side of the building with a man in his dress waiting for us. The family with five children and a grandmother stays in what looks like half a shipping container next to the building. Her name is Asma. A round face with a blue and orange scarf on her head. There is a heartwrenching desperation about her. A mother that has to fight and try and stand up for her family. Habibti**, I hear again and again amidst a flood of Arabic words as she grasps my arm. She keeps on saying I have to look inside the container. Maybe she thinks that with my western skin and hair I can help her. Or maybe she just wants to show someone - its difficult.
She shows me her "kitchen", in the open air a few boxes and a tap and a weird collection of things stand in a camped off space. I try to make conversation and ask whether this is where she washes but she doesn't understand and takes, drags me further to show me a whole washing line of clothes. Oh habibti. She keeps on touching me, showing me. On the opposite side, on what looks like an abandoned piece of land with building materials and garbage, a bundle of clothes peep out from under a blanket. Her cupboard, she motions. My heart breaks. Its so much more than what she is showing me. There is something in her eyes and her way of explaining. Wild, worried, desperate, hopeless. Probably leaving Syria in the hope of a better life and now this. I keep on saying in Afrikaans that I will pray for her, that I see, that I understand. Habibti. In some weird way I'm glad for the lack of language because I wouldn't have known what to say to her anyway. Quiet confidence that I'm speaking in a language that doesn't need words. While I'm praying praying praying. When we give them the customary mattresses and blankets and stove she hugs me. Shukran habibti. But we all know it is a plaster for too big a wound. Asma. For you I will keep on praying. And even if this Habibti cannot return as you ask, I will not forget you.
* I have changed the names of the women for the purpose of this blog. I do not write for sensation but because I believe that putting a face to something as big as the Syrian crisis enables us to formulate our prayers and to keep on praying. Amidst a lot of sadness and hopelessness I am encouraged by what the Lord is doing through His body. His children are running programmes, loving families, teaching children and providing in their needs. I firmly believe that Jesus is the only hope in any humanitarian crisis (and in my own life!) so please pray with me for His light to shine in the hearts of women like these.
** Habibti is an endearing term in Arabic, loosely translated as "my love" and often used in addressing someone younger than you, for example a small child. Shukran is thank you.